With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla
by Telcontar Rulz
Summary: The account of the end of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, as seen from the point of view of the most important woman in the kingdom, Princess Sibylla of Jerusalem.
1. Meeting the Baron

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer: **This is based on Sir Ridley Scott's brilliant film, _Kingdom of Heaven_. I don't own any of the characters.

**Chapter 1: Meeting the Baron**

The hooves of her horse thundered beneath her. She could feel the animal's powerful muscles bunching up. For a moment, she was free, one with the wind. Jerusalem loomed in the distance. Sibylla was reluctant to return. She had not had enough of her freedom, even if it was fleeting and pretensive. Her thoughts wandered back to the days when she'd been a naive girl; a stranger to the bitterness of this world. Oh, she'd been disappointed when her father had married her off to William de Montferrat, a man three times her age. Like any maid, she'd dreamed of a romantic marriage with a handsome young man who would love her and cherish her. William had been kind, but she'd viewed him as more of an uncle than a husband. And then, he'd died, leaving her five months pregnant with the potential heir to the throne.

For two years, she'd lived the lonely life of a widow, and she hadn't even been eighteen. Her son had taken some of her attention, but during those long nights of silent solitude, she had mulled over what could've been. Then Guy de Lusignan, that charming nobleman from France, had ridden into her life and bowled her over with his continental manners and his vitality. She'd been smitten with him, and her mother had been more than happy to marry her off to the Poitevin nobleman.

That had been then. She'd seen through the illusion. Guy was no more the charming knight than she was the warrior queen. Sibylla wished she had been wiser, but women in love were easy to fool. Who could've blamed her? Fifteen was too young an age for any girl to be widowed.

The gates of Jerusalem were open and welcoming, but to her, they seemed like the doors of a prison. She sighed. There was no choice. This was where she had been born, the place where God had placed her. It belonged to her, and she belonged to it.

"My lady," said her maid. Youmna was a sweet girl. She reminded Sibylla of her younger self. "I've heard that the baron of Ibelin has arrived."

"Godfrey's son?" said Sibylla. The corners of her mouth raised in a smile. She had been fond of the old baron, and she was curious as to what his son was like. Maybe she could pay him a visit. There was nothing which said she had to return to the palace immediately. At any rate, she did not want to risk the chance of bumping into Guy.

"Yes," said Youmna. "I've heard that his name is Balian."

"You would know wouldn't you?" said Sibylla. Youmna had many friends among the households of the noblemen. She made a perfect inconspicuous source of information. No matter how Guy tried, he could not keep her in the dark for long.

"They also say he's a blacksmith from France, and he's handsome," said the maid while suppressing a giggle.

"Now that is not in your place to say," said Sibylla, but she was smiling. "A maid cannot comment on her betters."

"Yes, milady," said Youmna, composing herself once more.

People parted on the streets to let Sibylla and her entourage through. Some of them dipped their heads in deference to the princess. They came before Godfrey's old city villa. It was a quaint little place, not rich, but warm. The guards at the door recognized her immediately. They bowed to her and then opened the doors. She rode through, straight into the courtyard. Her dogs ran before her, scattering chickens and geese.

A young man with sunburnt skin looked up from inspecting a horse. He frowned when he saw her, seemingly annoyed by this unexpected intrusion. She could see Godfrey in him immediately. Like father, like son, only the son had the rustic air of a peasant. Godfrey had been a soldier through and through. 'This will be interesting,' she thought as she scrutinized him. "Where is your master?" she demanded.

"I have none," he replied. Rustic though he might be, he had courage, and she found his blunt manner rather endearing. No nobleman had ever spoken to her in that way before. They'd all hidden their feelings beneath flowery nonsensical words. This man's frankness was a refreshing change. Honesty was something which one cherished, especially if one lived in court.

Sibylla lowered her veil. "Give me some water," she said. The man went over to one of the buckets of water, and lifted a tarnished silver ladle. He handed it to her. As she drank, she watched him. He stroked her horse's neck, murmuring words in the Langue d'Oile. The princess became mesmerized by his profile. His voice was husky, soothing. It washed over her like the purest of water, untainted by the corruption of aristocratic ambitions. She returned the ladle to him, and he took it without a word.

"Thank you for the drink," she said. "If you happen to see Balian the son of Godfrey, tell him that Sibylla called." Let him think that she didn't know who he was. She would surprise him later. It was obvious that he didn't know who _she_ was, and she wanted to keep it that way just for a little longer. Would he still treat her the same way if he knew she was the king's sister?

"The rumours were right, milady," Youmna whispered to Sibylla once they were some distance away from the old villa. "The new baron is very handsome, if a bit rude."

"If he is truly a blacksmith, then he probably does not know the etiquette of noblemen," said Sibylla. "Now, Youmna, you talk far too much for a serving maid. If I had wanted a chatterbox, I would've bought a parrot. They are much more colourful."

"Forgive me, milady," said the maid, dipping her head. As she did so, she risked a glance up at Sibylla. The princess seemed to be in a very good mood, and she was sure it had something to do with that rustic baron of Ibelin.

Sibylla was not listening. She was thinking back to the way that young baron had looked at her. "Balian of Ibelin," she whispered softly. The name felt good on her lips.

* * *

**A/N:** So that was just a little something inspired by watching _Kingdom of Heaven_ yet again. I will continue it if people like it. This first chapter might be a bit rough and it is a bit short because I just typed it out on a whim while in university.


	2. The Very Best of Wives

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters or the storyline. This story is based on Sir Ridley Scott's brilliant film, _Kingdom of Heaven_.

**Chapter 2: The Very Best of Wives**

Sibylla was in a dream, or so she felt. For the first time in after her marriage to Guy, she found herself dreaming about a man. And it was not her husband.

The reins were loose in her hands, and she let her horse plod on. The animal knew its way back to the royal stables. In the meantime, she was happy to just savour the freedom of being out of the palace. The air was filled with the scent of spices, with the underlying taint of sweat and waste. In a sense, it was like the Kingdom itself. On the surface, everything seemed holy and perfect. They were the bulwark against the Saracens. They were God's chosen people, dedicating their lives to fighting for Him and defending Christendom. But then, were they really fighting for God?

Sibylla was sure that some of them did believe that they were fighting for Christ, but there were others, namely her husband and his faction, who saw the Holy Land as a place to plunder. That brought her to another question. Why was Godfrey's son here? To her surprise, she didn't really care about the answer. What really mattered was that he _was_ here, in Jerusalem.

The princess passed the goldsmith's shop. Her spirits were high today. She gently pulled on the reins and stopped her horse, and then she jumped off, as nimble as any Saracen horseman, and strode inside. The goldsmith knew her by sight. He rapidly bowed and greeted her, and then hurried to show her his best wares. She was only half listening to him. Her eyes were fixed on a simple ring; a gold band, with a ruby the colour of rich red wine from the vineyards of southern France. Gold and maroon, the colours of Ibelin.

She picked up the ring, and examined it. The work was basic, if a bit rough, but it had its own rustic charm. Her expert eye could see that the ruby was a high quality stone. It was simply not well cut. 'Just like the young baron,' she thought. The stone was natural, and she liked it the way it was.

The goldsmith had fallen silent. Why was the princess interested in that ring, of all the pieces he had? Even the Italian merchants had scorned it. Sibylla tried it on, slipping it on each of her fingers. Finally, she put the ring on the ring finger of her left hand, where she wore the ring from her second marriage. It fit perfectly. Smiling, Sibylla took off the wedding band and replaced it with that rustic gold ring. She examined her hand, and looked pleased by what she saw.

"I'll take it," she said.

Dumbstruck, the goldsmith hurriedly named a price. As usual, it was far too high, but Sibylla didn't bother to bargain. She simply handed him the money and then left in a flurry of brightly coloured silks and jewellery with intricate designs.

* * *

When Guy saw Sibylla that evening, he was stunned by how beautiful she was, in her dress of white silk and her turban of bleached muslin. Henna had been expertly applied to her hands, and the kohl accented her large almond shaped eyes. The princess was a true sultry seductress of the east. The Poitevin lord felt his blood rushing to his nether parts. It seemed that she'd taken extra care to make herself beautiful that evening, but for what?

"Is it a special occasion, my lady wife?" he asked.

Sibylla smiled at him. She seemed happier than usual too. "What makes you think that, my lord?" she asked.

"Perhaps it is just me," said Guy, taking a step towards her and trying to wrap an arm around her waist. "You look absolutely ravishing tonight."

Sibylla gently but firmly pushed him away. "No, my lord," she said. "Come, we must not keep my brother's subjects waiting."

As the princess laid her hand on her husband's arm, she wondered whether the rustic young baron whom she'd met that morning would be there. She hoped that he would. It would be good to see him again. Sibylla had to admit that she hadn't been at all polite.

"The princess Sibylla of Jerusalem, and her husband, Guy de Lusignan!" announced the herald. Sibylla strode in proudly through the ambulatories. The nobles had all risen to their feet and only sat down again when she had seated herself at the head of the table, with her husband at the left and Raymond of Tiberias at the right.

Beside Tiberias, was Balian of Ibelin, still looking as rustic and out of place as a peasant amongst noblemen, but the look of surprise on his face was endearing. She flashed him a smile. He returned it with the slightest upturning of the corners of his mouth. She noted that there was fathomless sorrow in his brown eyes. Why had she not seen it this morning?

"Have you found any knights in France?" Tiberias asked of Guy as a way of making polite dinner conversation.

"Fifty," Guy boasted, helping himself to succulent roast pheasant. He downed a mouthful of wine.

"And they've sworn allegiance to the King?" asked the marshal.

"Of course, Tiberias," drawled Guy, rolling his eyes. "Obviously." The marshal pressed his lips together. God, no one could accuse him of not trying to mend the schism between him and Guy. But the man just refused to be civil.

The Poitevin lord's gaze fell on the young man sitting beside the marshal. Balian was minding his own business and concentrating on his food. Sibylla noticed that he had not uttered a single sound. Why was Guy so interested in him?

"You sit at my table?" said Guy, his voice dripping with contempt. Sibylla tensed. Guy was lusting for a fight, and this new baron was easy prey, or so he thought.

Balian looked up. He'd schooled his face into a mask. "Is it not the King's table?" he asked in that beautiful husky voice of his, with its charming northern accent. The young man showed no inclination to fulfil Guy's wishes for confrontation. Sibylla was very much impressed. Guy usually drove the most patient of men to fury. With that simple words, he'd corrected Guy's mistake and shown him his arrogance.

"Is it?" said Guy, looking around for support. How dare he, this peasant bastard son of Godfrey? No one spoke up. They all knew who was right and who was not. "I have not seen a king at it for some years." That did not seem to be the right thing to say, for Sibylla tensed, and her eyes took on a murderous gleam. He abruptly stood. "I cannot eat," he said. "I am finicky about company. In France, _this_ could not inherit." The Poitevin lord could not bring himself to acknowledge Godfrey's spawn as a man. "Here, there are no civilized rules."

All attention was focused on Guy now. He liked that. He'd seen how Balian had been looking at Sibylla, and the way she'd smiled at him. The princess' husband didn't like that at all. "I have business in the east," he announced as he stepped behind Sibylla and began to stroke her neck in full view of all the noblemen with small suggestive gestures, dangling her in front of Balian like bait. "My wife does not lament my absence," he said. "That is either the best of wives, or the very very worst." Let that be a warning to the bastard blacksmith from France. Sibylla was _his _wife, and _his_ alone.

He threw his empty cup to one of the attendants, and strode away without looking back. Sibylla watched him go, wondering for the umpteenth time what she had seen in him when she'd agreed to marry him. Awkward silence reigned over the table. The noblemen were glancing at her, and then at Balian. It was Tiberias who broke the tension. "To the very best of wives," he said, raising his cup. The princess could sense the smile in his eyes.

"God bless Jerusalem," she said in Arabic, raising her cup in return. Guy hated Arabs. Speaking their language was one way of spiting him, even if it was rather petty and ineffectual.

"Hear!" said Tiberias. "God bless Jerusalem!" This was translated back into the language of the Franks for the benefit of the newcomer. The meal resumed, just as a servant came over to Tiberias and whispered something into his ear. The marshal nodded.

"The King would see Godfrey's son," he said, starting to get out of his seat. Sibylla quickly laid a hand on his arm.

"I'll take him," she said. Time alone with this intriguing man from France, at last. The skies were beginning to darken. The dying rays from the sun cast a golden glow over the city. Sibylla led Balian through the dark torch-lit corridors of the palace.

"This morning, I spoke without knowing who you were," said Balian. She supposed that was his way of explaining his rudeness. He needn't have bothered. She liked him the way he was, blunt and honest.

"I knew who you were," she admitted with a smile. "It's unmistakable. I loved your father." She glanced at him. He seemed so emotionless, but she knew better. Under that mask was a man filled with sorrow. Why did men think that hiding their feelings was a sign of strength? "And now, I shall love you."

That made him look at her, rather alarmed by this blatant declaration. She simply smiled some more and walked on.

"When did you arrive in Jerusalem?" she asked him, as if nothing had happened.

"Just yesterday," he replied.

"And your family? Are they here as well?"

Balian looked down at the floor. "My wife is dead," he said quietly. So that was why he was so sorrowful.

"You must be found another," said Sibylla. "Every fief needs a woman's touch."

The young baron seemed uncomfortable about where this conversation was going. Instead of answering, he gave a small nod and focused on walking again. Sibylla felt herself growing frustrated with him. She just wanted him to talk. Was that so much to ask? She didn't need the flattering praises which noblemen usually uttered, although it would be interesting to see how this man would give her flattering comments. She just wanted a response from him.

He stayed silent, and Sibylla reached the end of her patience. "Do you fear being with me?" she demanded. That was how it felt. Balian seemed rather tense, as if he was holding something back.

"No," he said simply, and then stepping in front of her, he turned to face her with a small grin on his lips. "And yes." Sibylla laughed. So he did have a sense of humour after all. She knew exactly what he was talking about. As a woman, she really wasn't frightening at all, being rather small and delicate. But as a princess, with the welfare of a kingdom to think of, she could be as ruthless as any tyrannical Roman emperor. She knew that she would not hesitate to kill if that was what it took to protect her family and her kingdom.

"A woman in my place has two faces," she admitted. "One for the world, and one which she wears in private." She paused for a while. "With you, I'll be only Sibylla." There, she'd said it. It was an open invitation. Let him interpret it any way he would.

He seemed to be about to answer, but a shape in the doorway caught their attention. Sibylla saw a servant who'd been following them quickly step back into the shadows. Dear old Raymond. He loved her like his own daughter, but he didn't trust her, not at all. She'd been tricking him ever since she had been seven. "Tiberias thinks me unpredictable," she said in a conspiratorial whisper to Balian. Then she grinned. "I am unpredictable." It was a jest, but it was also the truth, and a warning. Sibylla was Balian's ally now, but being her ally wasn't such a good thing. As princess, she lived in the centre of corrupt courtly intrigues. One wrong step, and blood would be shed. The last thing she wanted was for this innocent young man from France to be hurt.

She didn't know why she was so drawn to him. Perhaps it was his stoic manner in the face of insult and humiliation. Perhaps it was his rustic French charm. She didn't simply want him. She needed him. For years, she'd lived in darkness and doubt. Had God sent her this angel to lead her into the light?

* * *

**A/N:** Here's the second chapter. Thanks, lateBloomer04, for the review!


	3. A Few Yards of Silk

**With You, I'll be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer: **This is based on Sir Ridley Scott's brilliant film, _Kingdom of Heaven_. I'm just borrowing the characters and the main plot, and I get no profit, only enjoyment :D

**Chapter 3: A Few Yards of Silk**

Sibylla opened the door to the inner chamber just a little bit so that she could see her son. The boy had his back to the door. He sat amongst cushions, talking to himself as he moved his pewter soldiers around and fought imaginary battles. Arabic words were scattered through his speech. Love filled her. It hadn't seemed so long since he'd been a tiny helpless baby in her arms. She stepped in as quietly as possible, so as to not disturb him, but her long silken dress got caught on one of his toys. Little Baldwin looked up when he heard his mother come in. He grinned and ran into her open arms. "Maman!" he said. "I thought you were dining with the lords."

"Ah, _mon__ petit_," said Sibylla, kissing her child on the forehead. "I did not have much apetite. What have you been doing today?"

"Master William told me about how God opened up the ocean to let the Israelites through," said the young prince, referring to his tutor, the renowned scholar William of Tyre. "Can you take me to the Red Sea?" He looked up at her with wide innocent blue eyes. There was so much of his father in him, but William de Montferrat had been anything but innocent.

"Perhaps one day, mon cheri," said Sibylla, "but it is too dangerous right now."

"I thought Saladin said he wouldn't fight us anymore," said the boy solemnly.

'That was before that idiot Reynald de Chatillon broke the truce,' thought Sibylla. There were times when she felt as if she couldn't stand it anymore. Someone needed to put the lord of Outrejordain in his place, and her brother did not have the strength to do it. Tiberias tried his best, but he was Reynald's equal, and his word did not carry enough authority. She was a woman, and by rights, had no place in politics. That was what the Church had decreed. She hoped that they would not need the sultan to personally punish Reynald himself. That would not be very beneficial to the kingdom at all, although the princess knew she would still smirk at Reynald's demise. That man was the devil incarnate.

"Maman?" said Baldwin. Why had his mother gone silent? She still hadn't answered his question.

"Go and play," she said to him with a smile on her lips. "And don't leave your toys everywhere to trip up poor unsuspecting people."

The prince ran off, clutching his pewter mounted knight. Sibylla settled herself on a couch. Her thoughts wandered, drifting back to that handsome young baron. Unconsciously, she played with her new ring. Her eyelids felt heavy. Against her wishes, her eyes slowly closed. Well, maybe one little nap would do no harm…

She was awakened by Baldwin trying to cover her with a blanket. "Oh God," she mumbled, reluctantly opening her eyes. The sky outside was black. "Shouldn't you be in bed, mon cheri?" Baldwin had the sense to look sheepish.

"You were asleep, Maman," he said. "I didn't want to wake you up." The look that he gave her melted her heart, and try as she might, she could not make herself look stern. "There was a strange man outside, just before," said the boy. "He kicked over my knight, and broke it, and then he fixed it. Is he one of the lords, Maman? I haven't seen him before."

Sibylla frowned. Who could be in the palace at this hour of the night? And a nobleman who fixed toys? "What did he look like?" she asked. Her suspicions were raised. A stranger in the palace could not possibly be a good thing.

"He wore a long robe, and he had dark curly hair," said Baldwin, concentrating very hard as he tried to describe the man's face. "His face looked like mine after I'd stayed out in the sun for too long, but he was dark, like a Saracen."

Sibylla's suspicion turned to amusement. "And did he look like Lord Godfrey?" she asked. Baldwin's eyes lit up, and he grinned.

"Oh, yes! Except he was much much much younger." Sibylla laughed. So it was Balian. Her brother must have spoken with him for a very long time. The more she heard and saw of the man, the more she liked him. Most noblemen wouldn't have bothered with fixing children's toys which they'd broken.

* * *

The next day, Sibylla rode to Balian's house. She desired to speak with him some more. He was different, and that fascinated her. She rode straight into the courtyard. "Where is the master?" she asked one of the servants.

"He is not here, my lady," replied the servant. "He has gone to Ibelin, on the King's orders."

"So soon?" she said with a frown. He'd only just arrived. Was her brother so impressed that he needed Balian to serve immediately? This dashed all her hopes of exchanging small talk with the baron again. Unless…

"Youmna, back to the palace," she said. "Prepare for a trip."

"Where are you going, milady?" asked the maid. Sibylla truly was an unpredictable woman. She'd not mentioned a trip previously. Where was it that she needed to get to in such a hurry?

"Where else?" said Sibylla. "Ibelin. And you had better not tell anyone."

"Your secrets are safe with me, milady," said the maid.

"I must be the only one whose secrets are safe with you," said the princess. It was a jest. Youmna might like to talk, but the maid would never betray her mistress.

* * *

The desert sun blazed down on her. Sweat marred the face powder which she used to hide her freckles. Still, Sibylla rode on. She was not the type of helpless princess who needed to ride in a sedan chair. Her ancestor, Baldwin of Boulogne, had ridden into Jerusalem on horseback. There were only a few sparse trees dotting this barren landscape. The hooves of their horses raised clouds of dust. On their way, they'd passed a few oases, but they'd been nothing more than puddle in the sand; certainly not enough to support a settlement. Godfrey had been an important man, so why would his fief be out here in the middle of nowhere?

Youmna was tired. She was hot, she was sweaty. Her hair was limp. She wanted food, and iced sherbet, and shade. However, she knew better than to complain. Sibylla didn't tolerate people who whined, unless the whiner happened to be Little Prince Baldwin, and the boy was too sweet-natured to whine. The maid wasn't sure whether it was entirely appropriate to be visiting the Baron of Ibelin. After all, the princess had met him once, perhaps twice, but they hadn't exchanged more than a few words. And besides, the princess was married.

Ibelin came into sight, a little hamlet in a sea of sand. There were a few palm trees. Children ran before them and waved. They hardly ever got visitors. This lady in bright silks, and her colourful entourage, fascinated them. "Where is the master?" Sibylla called.

Words passed between the children. The princess heard someone mention 'sidi' (lord) and 'yalla' (hurry). A boy ran in the direction of the fields, where there seemed to be a large construction project going on. She urged her horse on, following him.

The boy came up behind a man in a dirty white shirt. He looked just like all the other workers. He spoke to the man in rapid Arabic, indicating that he should do something. The man turned, and Sibylla was surprised to see that this dirt-covered man was in fact the Baron of Ibelin, looking nothing like a baron of any kind. He strode up the dirt track towards her, and she pulled her horse to a stop. The two of them stared at each other for a long awkward moment, and then Sibylla removed her veil.

"I'm going to Cana," she said. Youmna raised an eyebrow. Cana? That was in the other direction. Couldn't Sibylla have lied more convincingly? The baron might be ignorant, but his men were not. Sooner or later, the secret would have to come out. Sibylla had come here to see Balian of Ibelin, and all of the kingdom would want to know why. The maid shuddered. If Lord Guy ever found out, there would be hell to pay.

Balian said nothing. "Where Jesus changed water to wine," the princess elaborated. And then she smiled, unable to resist the chance to tease this fascinating man. "But a better trick would be to change you into a nobleman." Finally, that got a response from him. He grinned, and even though he was covered in dirt, she felt her heart warm and quicken at the sight of that grin.

"That should be easy," he responded without a moment's hesitation. "In France, a few yards of silk can make a nobleman."

Sibylla chuckled. Did the man had any idea how right he was? Many of the noblemen whom she knew were simply beasts in silk. And here, standing before her, was an angel in dirt. She wanted to tell him what she really thought, but that seemed too bold, even for her. Instead, she changed the subject.

"I expect your hospitality," she said. He dipped his head.

"It is given." There, just three words. No flowery language, no meaningless praises or grovelling. A simple knight, and a noble one. His manner robbed her of any witty remark. All she could do was stare at him. And even without his few yards of silk, he was beautiful.

* * *

**A/N: **There wasn't much development here, I know. I'll try and update as soon as possible. Thanks for reading.


	4. There is Only Light

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the characters. They all belong to the creators of the movie, _Kingdom of Heaven_, and God.

**Chapter 4: There is Only Light**

The rooms were simple, with only basic furnishing. Godfrey had not been a man for ornamentation, and his son was even less so. Sibylla smiled as she took in her rooms. Balian had given her the master suite. The lack of decoration was a refreshing change. There was no clutter here, no dark secrets. Ibelin was an innocent, just like its master. She had her maids bring in flowers to freshen the air. The room itself smelled of a man; of sweat, dust and masculine musk.

Youmna helped her to change out of her dusty travelling gown. Curtains were drawn around the balcony, veiling the princess from prying eyes as she bathed. Sibylla watched her maids bustling about, rearranging things to her tastes. Balian had said that they could do whatever they wanted with this suite. She sat with her feet in a basin of water with rose oil floating on the surface, forming a swirling rainbow. The sound of work and construction filtered in from outside; shouts of men, speaking both in Arabic and Latin. Sibylla stood. Making sure that her towel was wrapped securely around her naked body, she stepped over to the hand-carved windows, leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake.

Balian was helping to set the water-wheel in its place. The wind whipped his hair about his face, and his damp sweaty shirt stuck to his body, outlining the contours of his muscles. And they were nice muscles. He turned to glance back at his house. Sibylla smiled. She knew he was looking for her; somehow, she just knew. She watched him work, seemingly at peace with the world, but underneath, she knew he hid a sorrowful burden. His wife was dead, yes, but the princess felt there was more to it than just that.

The children brought him food and water, as if he was just another man, and not the baron. He laughed and joked with them, and they patronized him when he made horrendous linguistic mistakes in Arabic. Sibylla thought he always seemed wistful when talking to the little ones. The thought suddenly occurred to her. He'd had a wife, so did he have children? And if so, what had happened to them? She'd seen no sign of children in this house. In fact, Balian seemed to have no family left at all. At least, if he did, he didn't mention them.

'Ah, my lord baron,' she thought. 'You are shrouded in mystery, but you will tell me your secrets.' The princess smiled. She was Sibylla of Jerusalem, and she always got what she wanted.

* * *

Youmna had been sent to keep a look out of the baron once Sibylla had realized that work was over for the day. The princess seemed to be paying an unnatural amount of attention to the Baron of Ibelin. The maid wasn't sure it was entirely proper, but she was just a servant. Who was she to judge the princess of Jerusalem?

The baron's arrival pulled her out of her thoughts. One of the other maids had bent down to take off his muddy boots, but he declined as politely as he could. He seemed embarrassed by it. Youmna smiled. He was so different from Lord Guy, and it was impossible not to like him. "Her Highness awaits," she told him, ushering him into the master suite and onto the balcony. She closed the door behind her. They deserved privacy.

* * *

Sibylla took Balian's rough hand in her own. It was calloused from years of labour and toil. This was a man who lived off his own sweat. He grinned at her shyly as she made him sit down opposite her. There was a basin of water, with rose petals floating on top. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of them. "I've had bad experiences with rose petals," he said.

"Oh?" said Sibylla. Balian chuckled.

"It was in my father's house –my house– in Jerusalem. I found a bowl of water like this beside my bed, and drank it." He shook his head. "The maids laughed."

Sibylla laughed as well. Only a rustic peasant from France would not know the purpose of rose-scented water.

"We all make mistakes," she said. Balian kept his eyes fixed on her as she dipped a wash-cloth in the water, but he quickly grew nervous as she began to wash the dirt and dried sweat from his face. He caught her wrist and gently pushed her away, looking around as he did so. If anyone saw them, he had no doubt that they would grow suspicious of his relationship with the princess. At any rate, he was her servant, and it was not right for her to be treating him with such an intimate manner.

Sibylla gave him an amused look. He was such an honourable man. There were noblemen who would have thrown honour and caution into the wind in order to seduce her in the hopes of gaining power through her. "But this isn't adultery," she said. "It's washing." She raised her hand again and began dabbing at his face with small firm strokes to wipe away the ingrained dirt. He looked away and stared at anything but her. His body was tense. "And if it were adultery, which it isn't, then the commandments are not for people like us," she continued. "They are for the others." As she said it, she forcefully turned his face so that she could look him in the eyes. He quickly lowered his gaze.

Balian did not trust himself to talk properly. His body betrayed him. Sibylla was different. She was so bold. His late wife had been a demure creature. Sibylla was the phoenix; fiery, passionate, and unafraid. She ignited something in him, and he knew it was wrong for him to feel that way about her. Her touch sent shivers down his spine. She was beautiful, this exotic eastern princess. "Did they give you something to eat?" he said in an attempt to distract both her and himself. Food was very important, and it usually distracted people back in his village in France. 'Idiot, you are not in your village in France,' he thought.

"I said to wait until the master returned," said Sibylla with a coy smile. Thankfully, Balian's question had the desired effect. She stopped cleaning his face. "My cook will prepare something while you wash." She stood, and the young baron noticed that she wasn't wearing much under her shift, or on top of it, for that matter. Through the thin white fabric, he caught a tantalizing glimpse of her long shapely legs.

'What is happening to you, Balian?' he thought as he scrubbed his face and hands free of dirt. 'Your wife is not yet cold in her grave, and here you are, playing a nobleman and thinking about another woman.' He felt guilty, as if wanting Sibylla was somehow betraying Jocelyn.

* * *

Everyday, Sibylla watched him rebuild Ibelin bit by bit until it was no longer just a hamlet in the middle of a desert, but an oasis for tired travellers as well. The fields grew lush and green with crops. She found herself falling in love with this quiet little place, and with its shy master. Here, she was not the princess, but simply Sibylla. The longer she stayed, the more she realized that she had no desire to return to the political snare that was Jerusalem.

And Balian. He was the opposite of Guy; untainted by political intricacies. He said what he thought, without embellishing it in any way. She enjoyed his company. Little by little, she managed to dig out the story of his past. She wished she could comfort him, the way he'd given her peace in his little fief. At night, she lay awake, thinking about him. Her dreams were filled with his face; the way he'd grin bashfully, or hang onto everything that she said. Sometimes, she dreamed that they were a family, just her, Little Baldwin and Balian.

Sibylla made her choice. She never decided rashly, but she was not going to let this angel go.

* * *

The scratch of his charcoal on parchment was the only thing that Balian heard. Drawing was simple, comforting. He only had to think about the shapes which he could see, instead of contemplating feelings which could not be seen. The warm glow of his candles cast long shadows on the floor and walls. He heard a scuffle, and saw a light coming down the corridor towards his study. Balian looked up. Who was still awake at this ungodly hour, apart from him?

Sibylla knew it was not proper, but she could not keep her feelings inside her any longer. She loved Balian, of that she was certain. He was everything that she'd ever wanted in a husband. He was generous, kind, handsome, noble. What more could a woman ask for? His wife had been a fool to let him go. In the mess of his study, he seemed relaxed, as if he belonged. Unfinished plans for new fortifications lay on his desk. So her brother had asked him to design new defences for Jerusalem? Balian must have had more hidden qualities than she'd originally thought.

She came into his line of sight. They held each others' steady gazes. "I could stay here forever," she told him honestly. Her voice sounded raspy to her. Oh, God. Her desire was fighting to be free.

"This house is yours," he said. His voice was full of sincerity. Was it possible that his honest baron had felt something for her as well?

"Why do you think I'm here?" she asked him. Did he know? Or was he ignorant as to what was going on inside her head? He rose slowly from his seat and then came within a foot of her. Her heartbeat grew faster and stronger. She felt lightheaded. He was so solid, reliable. She could hear his soft breathing, and that excited her, but she managed to keep her wits about her. Now was not the time to become a foolish lovesick girl.

"I know that Ibelin is not on the way to Cana," said Balian. So he did know what she was thinking. Maybe she wasn't as unpredictable as she would've liked to be, or was he just particularly perceptive?

"What else do you know, my lord?" she challenged, giving him a sultry smile. The candle she held cast a warm golden glow on her face, giving her the mysterious appearance of a heathen goddess. He gazed at her intently. His deep brown eyes bored into her, seeming to see through the mask which she'd promised him she would not put on while she was with him.

"I know you are a princess," he said in his soft husky voice, "and I am no lord." It was said without conviction, only blunt honesty.

"You're a knight," she reminded him. How could he think he was not good enough for her? If she said he was good enough, then he was good enough. Christ_, she _was the one who chose what was good for her, not anyone else. At the moment, all she wanted was Balian. Nothing else mattered.

"Neither earned, nor proved," said the baron, lowering his eyes as if he was ashamed of what he was. And in a way, Balian was ashamed. He was a bastard, and a commoner. He had no place in court alongside dukes and counts…and exotic princesses. At any rate, he shouldn't be feeling like this. Sibylla was married. If he…that would be adultery. He'd come to the Holy Land to redeem himself and find absolution for his late wife, not to add another set of sins to his already long list and drag someone else to hell with him. Oh, but he wanted her. She was so close, within his grasp, and she was willing… 'No, Balian,' he told himself firmly. 'You cannot. You must not!'

Sibylla lowered her eyes. She suddenly realized how immoral she seemed. To an upright man from France, she must have seemed awfully bold. The last thing she wanted was to give Balian the wrong impression. "I'm not here with you because I'm bored, or…or wicked," she said, not looking at him. He said nothing. He simply stared and listened. 'Does he ever say anything unless it is to answer a question?' she wondered. His silence, although welcome at the moment, was not always what she wanted. Perhaps he was waiting for an answer, but how to answer his question? What was she doing here? She had no place in Ibelin, no place with him. "I'm here…because…because in the east, between one person and another, there is only light." With that, she glanced up, and blew out the candle between them. She wanted Balian to shed light on all her darkest dreams and desires. She wanted to give herself to him. The light of the candle was illusory, but her love was not.

She tentatively removed his outer coat. His flesh was hard and hot beneath her hands. She could feel him trembling. The coat fell to the floor and landed beside his bare feet. He didn't care. The man suddenly cupped her face and drew her towards him for a passionate, almost desperate kiss. She responded just as fiercely, tangling her fingers in his long dark curls. The released each other only to take a breath, and then he hoisted her into his arms, as if she weighed no more than a child. Their lips met in earnest again. She wrapped her legs around his lean solid torso.

All sense had been driven from Balian. He was enveloped in almost painful pleasure. Somehow, they managed to make their way back to the master suite, refusing to let go of each other 

and without alerting any servants. Perhaps they were too polite to indicate that they heard anything. It didn't matter. This was light. This was Heaven, and Hell.

* * *

**A/N:** I hope you enjoyed that. As for the details of the love scene, watch the movie :) That's much better than anything I can write.


	5. The World Will Decide

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters, the plot, or anything. All of _Kingdom of Heaven _belongs to Sir Ridley Scott and William Monahan, and History.

_Warning: Implications of adult themes_

**Chapter 5: The World Will Decide**

Sibylla lay awake, staring into the darkness. Beside her, Balian lay slumbering, his chest rising and falling with deep even breaths. The sheets were twisted from their lovemaking. The princess' hair lay loose on the pillow. She glanced outside. A full moon had risen; pale, round, perfect, save for the darker smudges which marked its face. It was like the all-seeing eye of God.

What had she done? She'd committed adultery with a man she hardly knew. And yet, she knew very well that she loved him. How else could she explain her feelings? His very presence warmed her heart. He made her feel cherished, precious. He made her feel human, instead of just a figurehead or a pawn which was to be used in the struggle for power. Balian cared nothing for the power which a relationship with her would bring. She knew he loved her, even though he'd never told her.

Her eyes turned to the fresco which adorned the walls of the master suite. Balian had not bothered redecorating the room, and Godfrey had had an odd sense of humour. The old baron had been almost the exact opposite of the stern and serious Raymond of Tiberias. This fresco seemed cheerful enough, upon first glance. It seemed to portray dancers, linking arms and moving merrily to an unheard tune. Then closer inspection reveals that they were, in fact, skeletons, with their macabre toothy grins. '_Quod summos,_' she read, '_hoc eritis._'

Such as we are, you will be.

The question was, how soon? She'd done the unforgivable, and she'd put Balian in danger. If Guy ever found out, his retribution would be swift, and merciless. Sibylla was afraid, not for herself –Guy would not dare to harm her– but for her son and her knight. She didn't want either of them to die, and she had the distinct feeling that she might have to choose between them. 'If that time comes,' she thought, 'I will do what a mother ought.' But for now, she wanted to pretend that she wasn't the princess of Jerusalem. She wanted to pretend that she was just a woman, content with the man she loved. Said man was quite unaware of what was going on in her mind. She felt like talking to him. Their time together was too precious to waste in sleep.

Sibylla woke Balian with a light touch. He opened sleepy eyes, attentive and quiet as always. "This is from France," Sibylla said as she pointed out the ring on her left thumb. "I've never been there. This is from my brother. This to remind us of death." And there, that nondescript ruby set in a gold band. "And this," she said with a coy smile, "I bought on the day I saw you." She slipped the ring off her slender finger and handed it to her knight; a token of her love.

Balian grinned. His hand dwarfed the tiny ring. "You lie," he said in jest. The ring was still warm from being on Sibylla's finger. The princess laughed; the sound warmed his heart. He'd not heard a woman laugh like that for a long time. She rose from the bed, taking the sheet with her to hide her nakedness. He watched her elegant figure as she took dainty steps towards the bedside table where the servants had left a cut up pomegranate, complete with tiny silver picks. She speared a pomegranate seed with one of those picks and brought it back to him on the bed, waving it suggestively before his face. "Pomegranate seeds are said to increase the virility of a man," she said. Even though it was dark and hard to see, Balian could hear the mischief in her voice. "Not that you need it, my lord." Instead of answering, Balian caught the seed in his mouth, and then he drew Sibylla's face close to his.

Sibylla willing let him into her mouth. The kiss tasted of pomegranate, of passion, but not of regret.

* * *

For Balian, the days merged into one another. He'd never felt this way before; he was excited, and he was almost certain that he loved the princess. She was a dangerous woman. Tiberias had been right to be wary; she was unpredictable. Being in love with her was almost like playing with fire. 

He didn't know whether or when she might turn on him. Then again, he didn't really care. After his wife's death, his world had been a blur of grey. One question had kept repeating itself in his mind. _Why, God? Why?_

And then Sibylla had thrown herself into his life in a storm of colour. 'What of Guy?' said a voice inside his head. Certainly the nobleman would not be pleased that his wife was betraying him, but Balian felt no pity for the man. Guy did not deserve Sibylla. Still, they couldn't keep their affair in the dark forever. Balian hated having to hide. Besides, Guy had many spies. Sooner or later, he would know, and what would he do then?

He glanced up at the balcony where Sibylla sat, patiently letting the maids paint henna onto her hands and looking out across Ibelin. The baron knew she was watching him. She did that every day. 'Does she regret it?' he wondered. Sibylla's son was to be king after all, and such an affair would not be good for her prestige, something which she would need in the years to come if she was to support her son through the early years of his reign.

Months passed, and Sibylla became more and more aware that her presence would be missed in Jerusalem. Rumours would be starting to fly. She needed to return, but she didn't want to leave Ibelin or its master. Her days here had been almost like a dream. For the first time in her life, she knew what it felt like to be loved, and not as a princess, but simply as a woman. However, Sibylla knew her duty.

As they lay next to each other in the dark, sweaty after their lovemaking, Sibylla turned to face Balian, who was already half asleep. "Balian, I have to go," she said softly as she stroked his cheek with a long slender finger. Balian opened one eye.

"Do you have to?" he asked, even though in the back of his mind, he knew it was a bad question. Of course she had to go back to Jerusalem. Her son was there, and so was her brother. She couldn't possibly spend the rest of her life here in his little fief.

"You know I must, my perfect knight," said Sibylla, cupping his face. "And you know I don't want to, but duty calls."

"When will you go?" Balian murmured, drawing her closer to him. He breathed in her scent. She smelt of roses and incense. He nuzzled her neck sleepily.

"The day after tomorrow," said Sibylla. She began to moan as Balian's slow touches melted her flesh. Soon, she forgot all about leaving Ibelin.

* * *

Balian and Sibylla walked side by side. No words passed between them, but then, none were needed. Sibylla was trying very hard to remind herself that this would not be the last time she would see him, but when would she see him again? Her place was in Jerusalem, and his, in Ibelin.

The horses were ready and waiting, chomping on their bits as the men held them still. Youmna was already mounted. Balian bent down beside Sibylla's horse an cupped his hands, inviting the princess to step on them to make mounting easier. This gesture of servitude made their parting even bleaker. Outside Ibelin, they were master and servant, princess and knight; not just a man and his woman.

She swung into her saddle, trying to keep her worries at bay. There was no going back now. She was bound to Balian, the same way in which he was bound to her. "What becomes of us?" she asked him as she played with the ring which now hung on a chain around his neck. He smiled, something which never failed to warm her heart. When he looked like that at her, she felt as if nothing in the world could harm her. Balian, her knight, would always be there; a shield against her foes.

"The world will decide," he said softly, throwing his fate into the hands of a world which was often too cruel. "The world always decides."

Sibylla wanted to embrace him, but she could not do so. Everyone was watching. If news of this leaked out, the princess did not doubt that she would soon be mourning for the man whom she loved. Instead, she kissed the ring, that simple gold band with the rough ruby which reminded her so much of him. 'Yes, Balian,' she thought. 'The world does decide, but I feel that you will decide as well.'

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry about the short chapter this week. Real life caught up and I had to study for an anatomy test.


	6. The Key to Her Heart

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer:** _Kingdom of Heaven_ belongs to Ridley Scott, William Monahan and History. I don't own any of it.

**Chapter 6: The Key to Her Heart**

Sibylla and Balian gazed at each other. Neither of them were willing to part, but they knew that they must. They came from completely different worlds. It was at that moment, when Sibylla felt that she was losing her fight with her emotions, that one of Balian's men at arms gave a shout. "Somebody's been shot!" he cried. Balian and Sibylla looked up. Riding up to Ibelin on a bloodstained grey horse was a man, dressed in the livery of the Royal court. He was draped over the horse, barely conscious.

Almaric rushed over to catch the frightened animal while Rollo, the Norman mercenary, relieved the man of his message. "My lord," he said after reading it. "The king is marching on Kerak."

"Kerak?" said Balian. Why would the king be marching on Kerak? He snatched the missive from Rollo. The baron immediately recognized Tiberias' writing, and he had orders for Balian. "_Protect the villagers_," the king had commanded. Balian glanced at Sibylla and then back down at the king's missive. He had a duty to his princess, but also to the people of the kingdom. To protect one was to abandon another. He could not let Sibylla return to Jerusalem alone, not while there were bandits about. She was a princess; a vulnerable prize. Then again, those villagers outside Kerak were just as vulnerable and defenseless, if not more so. He was torn.

"Balian?" said Sibylla. "What does my brother say."

"Reynald de Chatillon has raided a Muslim caravan," said Balian. "Saladin seeks to deal out retribution. The king is riding to meet him, and he has ordered me to go and hold off the Saracens until he arrives."

"Kerak is close to Jerusalem," said Sibylla. She knew his heart was divided. "I will ride with you."

* * *

The desert sand had been blown away by the wind, revealing its dark secrets for all the world to see. Bodies littered the ground, their faces contorted with the fear and agony of their last moments. Women lay only a few feet away from their children, their bodies ravaged by those who had left death in their wake.

No matter how hard she tried, Sibylla could not turn away from the sight. Her gaze was fixed on the face of a dead boy, around the same age as her Baldwin. How could anyone cut down an innocent child in cold blood? It was unthinkable. In fact, there was only one man in Christendom who was capable of such devilry. "Reynald," she said. He would be punished, by Saladin or by her brother. If she had been capable, she would've sent him to Hell herself. As it was, she was a woman who had not the strength to lift a sword.

Balian did not respond. Instead, he knelt down beside a dying horse, brushing sand away from its flank. The whites of the animal's eyes were showing, and it struggled to breathe. The man murmured soothing words to the beast, trying to comfort it. Then he pulled out a blade and pulled it across the horse's throat, ending its misery. Hot blood washed over his hands. He stood, and someone handed him a cloth. "He wasn't alone," he said.

Sibylla stiffened. She understood what Balian meant. Guy. Why had she married such a monster? If it hadn't been for her, Guy wouldn't have been so powerful now. It was all her fault. She lowered her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek. Why couldn't she have met Balian sooner? His voice stopped her from wallowing in her self-guilt.

"I'm going to Kerak," he said. Just that. But Sibylla knew the significance of it. He would go to Kerak with his one hundred men at arms to try and hold off Saladin's numerous forces. Her heart bled as her thoughts wandered to the consequences of such a move. Not trusting her voice, she simply nodded.

* * *

Fear was rife in the air. The villagers were running with their livestock towards Reynald's fortress. On the horizon, Saladin's army loomed like the shadow of Death. It was approaching quickly; too quickly. "Go into the fortress now," Balian said to Sibylla. His tone invited no challenges. It was an order, made by a man to the woman he loved, in the hope of protecting her. He knew he would never forgive himself if she came to any harm.

Sibylla nodded curtly. She exchanged one final glance with her knight. The princess drank in the sight of him, his beautiful hair covered by a helmet, his hard firm body underneath a long shirt of chainmail. He looked so cold now, a warrior instead of a lover, but she knew that underneath all this, there was a heart full of love and compassion, and a tormented soul. "Go!" she commanded her servants in Arabic. Without daring to look back, she dug her heels into her mount's flanks and urged it towards the open gates of Kerak. The horse's hooves clattered on the stone path which led inside the fortress. She dismounted and handed the reins to a servant before rushing up to the battlements. In the sky above Kerak, dark storm clouds were gathering.

Gerard de Ridefort greeted her with a bow. "My lady," he said. Sibylla dipped her head to acknowledge the Grand Master of the Templars. That was one man whom she could not afford to insult. His Templars made up a quarter of the army, and her son needed that army when it was his turn to sit on that throne.

Reynald stuffed meat into his mouth, seemingly unworried. Sibylla ignored him and went to look out across the field which was soon to be soaked with blood. Balian's force looked so small against the masses of Saracens. Her heart thudded wildly in her bosom, like the hooves of galloping war horses as they charged towards their doom.

"What do you look at?" asked Reynald. He didn't even offer her some of his food and drink, not that she would've accepted it.

"A knight," replied Sibylla. "And his men. " As she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed on the very small force, trying to discover which of those tiny figures was her knight.

Reynald followed her gaze, and he almost snorted with laughter. Whoever it was, he was a fool for condemning himself to death. It didn't seem quite right. After all, he had a reputation to uphold. He was a pious Christian, and he would be good to his fellow Christians. "Stephen, go and invite whoever it is inside the fortress," he muttered. "I won't have them saying that I left a Christian lord to the mercy of the Saracens."

Stephen returned moments later, saying that Lord Balian of Ibelin had refused Reynald's offer, electing to protect the people and hold off the Saracen cavalry until the King's arrival. Sibylla felt a surge of pride for her knight, and at the same time, she despaired, for how could he attack that overwhelming force and live?

She clenched her hands into fists, feeling her fingernails dig into her soft palms. Balian's forces were riding towards the Saracen cavalry. He attempted to flank them, but his men were too few, and they themselves were encircled instead. It was like watching a storm. From a distance, the men swirled like clouds in the wind, destroying and breaking. Clouds of dust rose, veiling them from sight. And then when everything settled, she could see that it was all over. Balian had lost, and he was a captive.

The princess felt as if her innards had turned into lead as she saw them carrying Balian's prone form towards the Saracen general. She closed her eyes and looked away, and then something made her train her gaze on Balian again. The Saracens had dropped him unceremoniously at the feet of their commander. Sibylla was so afraid that she would see him fall, but it never happened. Instead, Balian got up, and seemed to exchange civil words with the Saracen commander.

In the corner of her eye, she could see something shimmering. It was a cross, covered in gold and silver filigree and bedecked with jewels. The True Cross of Christ. She felt her spirits lift, and her hope was renewed. Her brother was here. Surely, if anyone could save Balian from captivity and death, it would be him.

A rider dressed completely in black rode out from the Saracen ranks. There could only be one possibility. "Saladin," whispered Sibylla. Even here, she could feel the power of the Sultan's aura. She couldn't remember a day when she hadn't heard his name. He was the one who'd united the Muslim emirs and turned them into the greatest force the world had ever seen. His authority was awe-inspiring. Here was the man, in life, a warrior, a diplomat, and a man dedicated to serving his God.

As Baldwin and the great sultan negotiated, the storm clouds passed and the sun shone down on them, as if they had God's blessing. Without even knowing what had been said, Sibylla knew that the storm had passed without actually having started. She had never felt so proud. Her brother, and her knight, had saved the people of Kerak. It almost balanced out her cowardly and bloodthirsty husband.

Imad ibn Baybar, Saladin's spymaster, the very same man who'd tried to deprive Balian of his horse in the desert, clapped Balian on his shoulder. "Allah must have blessed you, my friend," he said, "for you are very fortunate that your king arrived when he did. Had the mullah Saqr ibn Malik found that you were my prisoner, he would surely have demanded that you be beheaded. Salaam aleikum, until the next time we meet."

"And peace be with you too," said Balian with a tired smile. "For a moment, I thought you were Saladin."

Imad laughed. "Me? Oh no, I do not have the prestige, nor the skill. I'm quite happy to be his spymaster. But you, Balian, I believe I have underestimated you, no?" Then he leaned in and whispered something which Balian had least expected. "Be careful, my friend. You are playing with fire. The princess' husband may be a fool, but a proud and angry fool is a dangerous man." Then he rejoined his master as if nothing had happened, leaving Balian to wonder how on earth Imad had found out about his and Sibylla's affair.

"You must have some strength in you," said an amused voice. Balian looked up to see the perpetually cheerful Hospitaller, Brother John. "And just sheer dumb luck."

"So you came," said Balian, mounting a fresh horse rather stiffly. His own steed had been killed in the skirmish. A pity, for it had been a good horse, obedient and loyal to the very end. As he swung into the saddle, he became more and more aware of the wounds which he'd sustained. He grimaced as he aggravated a particularly irritating injury, where the chainmail had bitten into his flesh, even through the linen shirt. He swore that he would wear a quilted gambeson underneath the chainmail the next time he needed to don armour, no matter how hot the weather was. He was not looking forward to having those little rings dug out of his flesh.

"Would you expect any less of me?" said Brother John. He looked the young man up and down. "I suspect you'll be needing my attentions, Balian, son of Godfrey. I swear, you have less sense than your father. Do you even know what self-preservation means?"

"I swore an oath to protect the helpless," said Balian.

Brother John rolled his eyes. "Oh yes, and what about yourself? As a wounded man, you are very helpless."

"I am unharmed, John," insisted Balian. He heard a snort behind him and found Almaric trying not to laugh. Rollo seemed to be choking on something, because he was coughing rather strangely.

"A remark which Godfrey himself would've been proud to make," said John. "I know you Ibelins better than that."

Balian decided it was time to be quiet.

* * *

The clear sharp sound of leather against flesh pervaded the silence of the fortress. It was with satisfaction that Sibylla watched her brother bodily flog Reynald. He deserved every blow, and more besides. If he had received one for every death, he himself would've been a dead man. She almost rushed forward when her brother, exhausted from the long ride from Jerusalem and the overexertion of flogging Reynald, stumbled and fell. Tiberias was there to catch him, as he always did. The king was carried back to his litter.

It pained Sibylla to see her brother like this. Tall strong brave Baldwin, with shrewd wit and wisdom beyond his years. And yet, God had cursed him with this disease, and it had stripped him of almost everything, except his spirit. That would never change. The king waved Balian over. The bloodied knight knelt down beside his liege. They spoke softly together. Sibylla could not hear what was being said, but she could feel the bond of friendship between the two men. All of a sudden, it struck her how similar they actually were. Both were strong worthy men with great courage and sorrow in their hearts. Maybe that was why she loved Balian so much. She was looking for a man like her brother.

The king was borne away on his litter. Especially now, his presence was needed in Jerusalem, and he was loathe to stay in the castle of a murderer. His entourage followed him. Only the knights remained behind for a little longer. Balian gaze strayed to where Sibylla stood, her brightly coloured silks contrasting with the grey stone. He fished out the ring she had given him from beneath his tunic, not caring that Guy was there, watching him. He hated hiding, and could tolerate it no longer.

Sibylla's heart fluttered with joy when she saw Balian kiss the ring. He might not have said it with words, but he'd declared his love as clearly as if he'd shouted it from the top of the tower of David. His gesture, as small as it had been, filled her with renewed confidence, and she strode back into the citadel of Kerak without another glance at the nobleman who still beside the gates of Kerak, watching everything that had occurred between her and her knight.

Neither Balian nor Sibylla noticed the venomous expression on Guy's face as they both went their separate ways. The Poitevin lord felt as if his blood was bubbling with anger. How dare that common bastard blacksmith openly claim his wife? He'd seen that ring on Sibylla's finger, and it had replaced the ring which Guy had given her. And now, Balian was slowly taking over Guy's position in the kingdom, and in Sibylla's heart too.

Guy de Lusignan would not simply watch and do nothing.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed that. I updated early because I just _needed_ to write this.


	7. A Princess' Decision

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything that you recognize. _Kingdom of Heaven_ belongs to Sir Ridley Scott, William Monahan, and history.

**Chapter 7: A Princess' Decision**

The sight of Jerusalem greeted her; the open gates were like the jaws of an ancient monstrosity. She had no desire to go in, to be embroiled in that seething cauldron of politics again, but what choice did she have? Her blood had doomed her from her birth. She was a princess. She was a political pawn. Sibylla glanced at the still form of her brother on his litter. He had always been her shield, trying to protect her from all the dangerous intricacies of court life, but now he was dying. To whom would he pass this mantle of protector? In her mind, there was only one candidate. She risked looking backwards, past Guy, and at the unimposing figure of Balian. He gave her a small smile and then resumed his conversation with Raymond.

His presence made Sibylla feel a bit safer in her own city. If she could have her way, then he would be her Champion. The noises and smells of Jerusalem washed over her, bringing her back to reality. The lords and knights began to disperse to go to their houses in the city. Balian and his men broke off relatively early to ride back to Balian's house. The servants no doubt would be unprepared for their master's arrival.

The palace was dark, even though the servants had lit all the torches. The king was quickly carried to his own chambers. The Saracen physicians, sent by Saladin himself, followed, along with Bishop Heraclius, the patriarch of Jerusalem. Sibylla was left alone to find her own way back to her apartments, not that she actually needed an escort. Guy brushed past her and disappeared into the dimness of the corridors. They had not spoken during the entire journey back to Jerusalem. She cared not. There was nothing to say. He had his way of life; she had hers.

The princess' soft footsteps echoed in the empty darkness as she strode to her apartments. The door was opened for her with a soft creak, and the maidservant who'd opened it dipped a curtsey when she saw that her mistress had returned.

"The little prince sleeps," she whispered. "Shall I…"

"No, do not wake him," said Sibylla. She slid her dusty cloak from her shoulders and handed it to Youmna without sparing the girl a glance. The princess could see her sleeping son from behind sheer curtains. His pewter knight was on his bedside table. The warm glow of the candlelight bathed him in a golden glow. He looked so peaceful, with his thumb in his mouth. The resemblance to a sleeping Balian was almost uncanny. She felt love well up inside her for these two men in her life. Both were angels, sent by God to bring her to salvation. Pushing aside the curtains, she went to her son's bedside and sat there. Baldwin shifted but did not wake. She brushed his hair away from his face and placed a kiss on his forehead. The boy's eyes fluttered open.

"Maman?" he murmured. His mind was still muddled with sleep. "Where have you been? I missed you."

"I know, _mon chèri,_" she said. "I'm back now." She gathered the sleepy boy in her arms and held him close, rocking him.

"I had a dream," he told her as he snuggled up to her. "I dreamed that I was a knight, and I won many many battles."

"Did you now?" said Sibylla with a sad smile. She wished that her little boy would never know the ugly reality of battle, and that he would stay her little boy forever, but she knew that was not to be. Baldwin was to be king, just like his uncle, his father and his grandfather. Kings were warriors. They had to be. She wished there was someone who could guide him, and teach him to be a man. As it was, she could only rely on William of Tyre, who, being a churchman, was unused to the ways of war and politics. Guy was definitely out of question. She would not let him within ten feet of her son.

And Balian. He would have been the perfect choice, if only she hadn't married Guy. Balian would be able to care for her and her son, and he would remain true; their protector. She began to rock Baldwin back and forth, singing softly to make him go back to sleep. He was a comforting warm weight in her arms. As she coaxed her son back to sleep, a plan began to in her mind. Was she not the princess of Jerusalem? She was not just any other woman. An ordinary woman would have no say in the choice of her husband, but she was Sibylla, and she always had a say.

* * *

Balian's house was quiet; an oasis of peace in the bustling city of Jerusalem. There was light coming from the windows. The master was still awake, and busy at work, designing the plans for the new fortifications which the king had commissioned. He wondered if his walls would ever be built; with the king dying, there would no doubt be a struggle for power as the factions strived to dominate the court. Was that not why Tiberias had asked him to come to Jerusalem?

He heard the sound of horse's hooves in his courtyard. Who could be riding at this hour of the night? He set down his charcoal. Shooing an inquisitive mouse out of his shoes, he slipped them on and went out to investigate. The night breeze was cool and pleasant, brushing his face like the breath of a lover.

"Sibylla?" he said when he saw who'd arrived. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to come," she said, almost running up to him. Strands of hair escaped from under her turban. "I felt trapped within the palace."

Balian smiled. Of all the places she could've gone to, she'd come to him. And yet, he wasn't surprised. "You are always welcome here," he said.

"I know," said Sibylla. She leaned against him, and she felt his arms around her. She felt safe, at peace, just listening to his strong steady heartbeat. Her knight was here. For a while, she could forget her worries. With one move, he'd swept her into his arms and carried her into the house. She did not protest. In fact, she was enjoying every moment of it. The princess stroked Balian's cheek. His beard was rough beneath her soft hands. She traced the outline of his jaw, letting her finger run lightly down his neck. He shivered, and she smiled to herself.

By the time he reached the master suite, his desire was almost overwhelming him. No words passed between him and Sibylla. They didn't need words; their bodies said enough. He kissed her, putting all his passion and desire into that kiss. She responded with the same fervour, entangling her slender fingers in his thick curls.

Hungrily, she almost tore off his shirt. He broke off the kiss, wincing. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said, although his face said that he was not telling her the truth.

"Balian, tell me," she said.

"Really, it's nothing," he insisted, "only a couple of bruises."

Sibylla released him and looked him up and down. His skin was mottled with dark blotches, and there was a linen bandage wrapped about his torso. "A couple of bruises," she said, running her hands over his skin, examining him. "I think not. Why would a couple of bruises need a bandage like this?"

"I didn't wear a quilted gambeson," he admitted sheepishly. Sibylla grimaced. That had to be painful. "Honestly, Sibylla, you don't need to worry. I've been injured before, and I don't break that easily."

"Perhaps I shouldn't–" she began, but she never got to finish her sentence. Balian had taken her into his arms and pressed his lips firmly against hers, signalling the end of the discussion about his wounds and telling her that he was completely capable of doing what he wanted to do most at the moment. She wrapped her legs around his torso, careful to avoid the place where he'd had chainmail removed from his flesh. He was hard, solid, so real. Jesus had chosen Peter as the rock on which He had built his Church. If Sibylla had to choose a rock, she would choose Balian.

For a moment, a jolt of fear shot through Sibylla. What if they were discovered? Men were executed for adultery. In Ibelin, it hadn't matter; Balian's people would not have betrayed him, but this was Jerusalem. Guy had spies everywhere. God, what had she done in coming here? Soon, those thoughts were driven from her mind. Balian was proving to be very distracting. And he did not seem to be afraid; not one little bit.

* * *

Sibylla watched Balian sleep. She loved how he looked when he was asleep; No lines of worry marred his beautiful face then. He looked so innocent, so naive. Unlike her, he seemed to leave his worries behind when he entered the land of dreams. She wondered what he dreamed about. Did his late wife visit him in his dreams? Did he dream of a life which could never be?

The princess glanced outside. Through the sheer curtains, she could see that it was almost dawn. The sky was beginning to turn purple. She got up and put on her robe, and then went to light the lamp on the bedside table. Balian did not stir. She was not surprised. He was exhausted, firstly from the battle, and then from the long ride back to Jerusalem. She'd seen the bruises and cuts on his body. How he'd actually managed to stay on his feet was a complete mystery.

"Balian," she whispered, bending down over him. Her hair tickled his face. His eyes slowly opened. "I must go." The ecstasy of last night had worn off, and once again, she was aware of how dangerous this was. "We can't meet in the city."

Balian gave a little sigh. "Then we will leave it," he said. Sibylla smiled. His world was so simple, and he was so free. How she wished she was like him. He had no fear; neither of death, nor of God. She feared everything. How could she not? She could see the dangers which surrounded her and those whom she loved. Death was never far away, waiting to strike at the least expected moment. She had to be wary.

"And live how?" she asked. "Live where?" Sibylla did not know where they could run to, and she had no desire to run. Jerusalem might be her prison, but it was hers, and it was all that she knew. Her son was the heir to the throne, and she was not about to relinquish her inheritance so easily. "Balian, my brother's dying," she said. "My son will be king, and I, his regent. I must rule for him, and not just in Jerusalem, but in Acre, Ashkelon, Beirut." She stared into his eyes, hoping he would understand why she had declined to accept his invitation.

He stayed silent for a while, as if he was thinking about it. "And Guy?" he finally said. Sibylla had no answer for him.

What of Guy?

Her brother had no love for him, and the barons absolutely loathed him, with the exception of Reynald de Chatillon. Guy was only powerful because he was her husband, and he had the support of Reynald and the Templars. It would only take some persuasion on her part to change the situation. Reynald was gone, imprisoned. The Templars had their match in the Hospitallers, who were just as powerful, and they supported Raymond, and Raymond favoured Godfrey's son. She would only have to suggest it to Raymond.

As for Balian himself. Well, he loved her, did he not?

* * *

**A/N: **Hope you enjoyed that. Sibylla's a difficult woman to guage, but she's interesting to write.


	8. To Offer the World

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belongs to Sir Ridley Scott, William Monahan, and History.

**Chapter 8: To Offer the World**

The city was cool and quiet, its inhabitants still slumbering. Balian walked with Sibylla down to the courtyard, where her servants were waiting with the horses. No one spoke. It was their master's secret, and they had no desire for anyone in the court to find out. Godfrey had entrusted Balian to them, and they would keep him safe. It was all they could do to pay their old master back for his kindness.

"God keep you, my lord," said Sibylla.

"God does not know me," replied Balian. There was a gentle smile on his lips. He stood beside her horse and cupped his hands, allowing her to place her foot on them to boost herself up into the saddle. She longed to cup his face, to kiss him there and then in the courtyard, but she could not. That would almost be signing his death warrant.

* * *

Raymond was deep in thought, as always. Sibylla was a hard woman to predict. Even he, who had watched her grow up, still did not truly understand her. At the moment, she seemed to speak about Balian all the time, praising his virtues, as if no one else knew about them. In fact, it seemed as if she was in love with him. He knew she had visited his house; that was no secret. However, what did she really want?

The Marshal paced outside the king's chamber. He could hear urgent murmurs, but he could not make out the words. It seemed as if Bishop Heraclius, Patriarch of Jerusalem, was in there with the ailing sovereign. What was that old fox trying to do? The murmuring stopped. The king had won the argument, whatever it had been about. Moments later, the patriarch emerged. He did not even deign to glance at Raymond. Perhaps he had not even seen the count; surely his mind was on more serious matters.

'Such as the ample bosom of Madame la Patriarchesse,' thought Raymond rather ungenerously. Everyone knew how keen the patriarch was when it came to sharing love, especially the unholy kind. Maybe even Godfrey could have made a better bishop than Heraclius. If the situation had not been so dire, Raymond would have laughed out loud at the thought of the rash and irreligious Godfrey as the Patriarch of the holiest city in the world. Oh yes, he could imagine Godfrey saying mass in Latin. Then he became sombre. What would he give to hear his friend and his broken Latin again?

He pushed aside the damask curtains. The Saracen physician and his assistant bowed to the count as they passed him. The physician clutched his medicine chest close to him as if it would protect him from the malice hiding in the shadows of the palace.

The king sat at his desk, swathed in bandages. His mask had been removed; here in private, there was no need to hide his ravaged face. "My lord," said Raymond. It pained him to see Baldwin like this. He had watched the boy grow up to become a man. The king had shown such potential as a child, and now all this potential was going to waste. Surely, Guy and his faction would squander away this kingdom which had cost the blood and sweat of so many men.

Baldwin glanced up with red and watery eyes. The king could see the sorrow in the Marshal's eyes. "God is calling me home, Tiberias," he said; there was not even a hint of fear in his voice. He lifted his bandaged hand. "Soon I shall be free of this corrupted flesh, but my heart is uneasy, for I can guess what will happen after my passing."

"That is what worries me, Sire," said Raymond. Baldwin indicated a low wooden chair.

"Come, sit," said the king. "What do you propose?"

"Guy cannot take control of the army," said Raymond, "and I am old; perhaps if the army was placed under the command of someone wise and trustworthy…"

"Such as he son of Godfrey?" said Baldwin. Raymond was rather taken aback by this. Surely he had not been that easy to read? Then again, Baldwin had always been intelligent and observant. "I know you favour him," the king continued. "I favour him also, and so does my sister." He gave a small laugh. "They think the world remains oblivious to their affair."

Raymond sighed. Could they be more wrong? Balian, like Godfrey, seemed incapable of subtlety. The count was more disappointed in Sibylla, however. She was an intelligent woman; didn't she know that what she was doing not only endangered herself, but also an innocent man and an entire kingdom? He had expected better of her. "If Balian was given the command of the army, we would need a legitimate reason," said the Marshal. "Traditionally, the King or the Prince Regent would be in charge of all military matters. Balian is simply a baron, and a… a young one at that."

"I believe you meant to say 'inexperienced," said Baldwin. "After all, Balian is newly arrived from France, relatively speaking, and he has been raised as a common man, while Guy is the son of a French nobleman and he has been Sibylla's husband for five years now. He seems to have the upper hand in this game. However, if Sibylla's marriage to Guy was annulled, on account of non-consummation, or treasonous activities on Guy's part…"

"Do you think it would work, Sire?" said Raymond.

"It is a possibility," said Baldwin. "However, I think you should consult both Balian and Sibylla first. I do not think that my sister would object, but Balian is another story altogether."

"Why in God's name would he say no?"

The king merely gave a small smile. Raymond of Tiberias had made the mistake of thinking that since he knew Balian's father, he would know Balian too. But Baldwin knew that Balian was not simply another Godfrey. There was something about the young baron which made him predict that he would not react to this proposal in the way which Raymond expected him to.

* * *

Sibylla reclined on a couch, holding a cup loosely in her hand, pondering her situation. Se needed to tell Raymond about her plan somehow, and let the Marshal tell her brother before it was too late to do anything. The idea that Balian might not accept the plan never crossed her mind. He loved her, and what man could resist the offer of the world?

How did one start such a conversation? Surely she could not just go to the Count of Tiberias and tell him that she wished to kill her husband and replace him with another man. She neede to give a valid reason for her actions.

"Milady," said Youmna. "The Marshal requests an audience with you."

"Oh?" said Sibylla, instantly alert. This could not just be a coincidence, could it? Was God giving her a sign? She sat up and straightened her clothes. What could she say to Raymond? "Let him wait in the sitting room," she said. "I will be there soon."

* * *

Sibylla's sitting room was artfully furnished with brocades and hangings which she had personally selected. Raymond traced his fingers over the intricate patterns of a rug of Persian make. The camel-hair was soft. No one could say that Sibylla did not have good taste, and not only in decorations, but in lovers also. 'Balian is good enough for any princess or queen,' thought Raymond. He just hoped that his reckless young friend would not get himself killed while pursuing this princess, although at the moment, it seemed as if it was the other way around.

"Lord Raymond!" The count looked around. The young prince had just run into the room, clutching a pewter knight. His tutor, William of Tyre, was nowhere to be seen. It seemed that Little Baldwin had inherited his uncle's skill of evading lessons.

"Your highness," said Raymond, bowing to the boy. He straightened immediately, and just in time to catch the child as Baldwin threw himself at him.

"I haven't seen you for a long long long time," said the child. He spoke so quickly that it took quite a bit of effort to follow his babbling. "Maman said you were very busy. Are still busy? I want to go to the Red Sea, and Maman said that once you are not busy, you can take me."

Raymond raised an eyebrow in amusement. It seemed as if Sibylla had been appeasing her over-inquisitive son with promises which she could not possibly keep. Who was she trying to fool? The child, or herself? He knew that the princess did not want her son to become acquainted with the harsh realities of his station in life, but what choice did she have? The child had to grow up. He pitied them both, mother and child. Sibylla was many things, but she was, above all, a mother, and she would try to protect her son for as long as she could, to the best of her ability.

'Your son needs another protector,' thought Raymond. 'You cannot coddle him forever, Sibylla. He is to be king.'

"Alas, your highness," said Raymond out loud. "I have many things which I still need to do. Perhaps we can talk about this later, when I have finished my work."

Baldwin gave him a doleful look. "You always have work," he said. "It's not fair. Maman won't let Lord Guy be my escort, but she goes away on her own all the time. I found out where she went that time. She went to _Ibelin_.Is that very far away? As far as France?"

Maybe the boy was more like his mother than Raymond had originally thought. He was certainly good at getting information. 'Please don't ask me what she did in Ibelin,' he thought.

"No," he said. "Ibelin is not as far as France, although it is many days ride from Jerusalem."

"Lord Balian comes from France, doesn't he?" said Baldwin. "And he lives in Ibelin."

"That is right," said Raymond. "How do you know Lord Balian?"

The boy showed Raymond his pewter knight. "He broke my knight, and then he fixed it. He's a nice man," he said solemnly. "Did Maman go to Ibelin to visit him? She should have taken me."

"I suppose…" began Raymond slowly.

"Lord Marshal, what a surprise," said Sibylla from the doorway. She was wrapped up in layers of sheer silk. Pearls encircled her neck. Her veil was almost transparent, negating the entire purpose of a veil. Youmna held back the curtains for her. The princess smiled. "Baldwin, why don't you go and play in the gardens with Youmna? The Lord Marshal and I have things to talk about."

Little Baldwin's face lit up. It seemed as if his mother had forgotten all about his lessons. If Master William could not find him, then he would have a free day. "Come on, Youmna," he said, running out. "Let's play knights and dragons! You be the dragon." The maid hurried to follow him.

"I shall have to reprimand him for missing his lessons later," said Sibylla.

"He is a boy," said Raymond, smiling fondly. "All boys are like that. I remember when I was young, I hated my lessons."

"What he truly needs is a father," said Sibylla. "It is a pity that William died so early."

"William of Montferrat was a good man, but perhaps not the best father," said Raymond. "He was always very impatient."

"That he was," said Sibylla. "But he would have made a better father than Guy, in any case."

"God forbid that Guy should be a father to anyone," said Raymond. "There is already one too many Guy de Lusignans."

Sibylla laughed. "Why have you come, Lord Raymond? Surely it was not to talk about trivialities such as this?"

Raymond looked around to make sure that no one was listening. He leaned in closer to Sibylla. "Guy must not become Prince Regent," he said.

"I know that," said Sibylla. "And yet, what can I do? He is my husband."

"Husbands can be changed. Eleanor of Aquitaine did it. Why can't you?"

"Who do you think should play Henry to my Eleanor?"

"I think you know exactly who, Sibylla. I doubt am the only one who has been pondering this."

* * *

**A/N: **Not much Balian in this one, but this is Sibylla's story after all ;) Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it.

**Historical note:** Heraclius, the patriarch of Jerusalem, really did have a mistress whom everyone nicknamed 'Madame la Patriarchesse', or 'Mrs. Bishop'.


	9. A Kingdom of Conscience

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything.

**Chapter 9: A Kingdom of Conscience**

Doors were meant for protection; those leading to Sibylla's quarters were made to keep out any unwelcome presence. Inside was her refuge; a place of peace and safety in the middle of Jerusalem's dark undercurrents and courtly intrigues. The colours and hangings had all been chosen for the tranquillity they represented. The inner chambers were sheltered from the heat, but with the coming of evening, they would be graced for a short while, with the dying golden light of the sun as it set over the heart of Christendom.

The princess loved the security she felt when she was in her sanctuary; it was like being in the warm loving embrace of her old nurse, who had long since passed away. When she returned this afternoon, she expected to find her son there, playing or completing the tasks set by his tutor. What she saw gave her a most unpleasant shock. Guy had gone too far; he had invaded her haven and worse yet, he was with her son, telling her boy how he ought to arrange his pewter figures. The man had his back to her, but she could hear him quite clearly. "Always surround your knights with foot-soldiers," he told the boy.

How dared he? Sibylla's heart was filled with rage. Baldwin was not Guy's son. How dared he come here and corrupt his angelic mind? She pushed aside the sheer curtain. "These rooms are not yours," she said. Her voice was cold and sharp, like the icicles which formed during the harsh European winters which she had heard about.

Guy turned around at the sound of her voice. He smiled when he saw her; his fierce little vixen. Not even an illicit lover had softened her. Then again, how could a man like Balian soften a creature like Sibylla? He was a man as harsh and unrefined as the desert sand. Just simply thinking about that bastard peasant from France made his blood boil. He had even dared to claim Sibylla as his woman before the entire world, leaving Guy to be the joke of Christendom. "One day, I will be the husband I was commissioned to be," he said, looking Sibylla in the eye and daring her for rebuke him. Losing a woman was a small matter. Losing a queen was not-so-small. She was the one woman who could give him power, and he was not going to let her go that easily.

Sibylla gave a brief cold smile, her blue gaze never wavering. "And perhaps not, my dear," she said. Those two words were meant to be a mocking barb, and she felt a surge of satisfaction when she saw him flinch.

"Your lover has a hundred knights and the love of a king," said Guy, trying to use reality to frighten Sibylla into submission, "and I, the largest force in the kingdom and the support of the Templars." He smiled grimly. "I can do without the king's affection, but as for your love..." He left that sentence hanging and reached out, trying to cup Sibylla's face. She jerked away sharply and then pushed past him to go to her son.

Baldwin kept his eyes fixed on the tall and imposing figure of Lord Guy. Thank God his mother was here. Lord Guy frightened him; he spoke of the most horrible things, and his voice was always too thick and smooth, like oil. The boy knew that his mother detested Guy, and he wished that he could protect her from him. He promised himself that when he grew up, he would be a brave knight like Lord Balian and keep his mother safe from Guy.

"Then we must come to an understanding," said Guy, looking down at Sibylla's little runt of a son. "You need my knights, or his rule will be bloody and brief." That made Sibylla glance up again and she fixed her eyes on Guy. It was with some glee that Guy saw the first hints of fear in those large blue eyes. He caressed her chin with a rough thumb. Not once did she move. He smiled; yes, he had made her think, and surely an intelligent woman like Sibylla would know what was more important. He turned and left her still staring at his retreating back.

"Maman?" said Baldwin. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes," said Sibylla, trying to smile to reassure her son. "I'm fine." She kissed Baldwin on his soft smooth cheek. "I'm fine, darling."

"I don't like Lord Guy," said the boy, gazing at his mother intently.

Sibylla sighed and gathered her son into her arms. "I don't like him either," she admitted, rocking him.

"He won't come back again, will he?"

"No, no, not ever again. I will make sure that the servants don't let him in. I won't let him hurt you, mon chèri."

"Maman?"

"Hmm?"

"If you hate him so much, why don't you marry someone else?"

"What?"

"If you had another husband, Lord Guy can't bother you anymore. Why don't you marry someone nice, like Lord Balian?"

"Oh my darling," said Sibylla, wanting to weep and laugh at the same time. How was it that her son knew exactly what she wanted? "I do love Lord Balian very much, but I can't just change husbands."

"Why not?"

"Because God says that once a man and a woman are married, they are bound to each other forever until one of them dies." Sibylla forced herself to smile; she had to be strong for her son. "But enough about all of this. Someday, you will understand when it is time for you to take a wife of your own. What say we go riding today?"

Baldwin's face lit up. All thoughts of lords and ladies and marriages were driven from his head. "Can we really?" he said, "and out of Jerusalem too?"

"I don't see why not," said Sibylla. "It is still fairly early. Youmna! Send word down to the stables and tell them to prepare a fresh horse and Baldwin's pony. The prince and I are going riding."

* * *

The fields of yellow barley stretched on like an endless sea of gold. Their heads, heavy with ripened grains, waved gently in the wind as if they were conversing with one another. Jerusalem looked no bigger than a child's toy from here. The dark corners and malicious shadows of the Holiest City could not be seen from afar.

On the path which separated the fields was a merry and informal procession. Little Baldwin sat astride his bay pony while his mother lead the beast along; the servants followed them, keeping some distance behind mother and son so that they could have some time to themselves. Out here in the tranquil countryside, Sibylla could pretend that she was not a political pawn in one of the biggest games which Christendom had ever seen. She wondered what it would be like to live the life of a common woman, unburdened by bloodlines and political associations. For a princess who had spent her entire life cosseted within the walls of the palace and sheltered from the outside world, it was hard to imagine a life without servants and bodyguards running around to do her every bidding.

Would she mind such a life? Sibylla did not know. The life of a princess was hard, but who was to say that the life of a peasant woman or a blacksmith's wife was not just as hard? Each station in life had its own difficulties. Balian would know. He had played so many parts in the pantomime of life; a blacksmith, a knight and a baron. And soon, he would be playing the part of Prince Regent, if Sibylla had anything to say about it. 'How would you like that, my perfect knight?' she wondered. 'How would you like to go from owning nothing to owning the world?'

* * *

To say that Balian was surprised when he received summons from the king would have been an understatement. With so much going on, the baron had thought that his liege would be much too occupied with settling his affairs to even remember him. The messenger had been very vague about what the king actually wanted with Balian, and no amount of questioning had been able to extract any information from him. It seemed that the messenger was just as confused as to why the king wanted to see the baron.

Evening had settled over Jerusalem. Balian followed the servant through the dark corridors. The flickering torches in the brackets on the walls gave little light. Ominous shadows seemed to close in around him. He felt was if there was someone watching him, waiting for the right chance to strike.

The king and Tiberias were waiting for him in the king's inner chamber. Many candles had been lit, casting the room in a golden glow, but nothing could disguise the weariness in Baldwin's red and watery eyes, not the silken robes and certainly not the perfect silver mask which hid his ravaged face. "So, my friend," said Baldwin. "The time has come for me to settle my affairs." It was a painful reality; the king was only twenty-three. It was not fair that such a young life should be snuffed out, but then, nothing in life was fair, and Balian knew that better than most.

"We have decided that you will take command of the army," Baldwin continued. "If I leave the army to Guy, he will take power through my sister and make war on the Muslims."

The request shocked Balian. He couldn't see himself as the high commander of any army, much less the army of Jerusalem; it was such a heavy burden, and he feared that he lacked the experience and the ability. Yes, had made his name at Kerak, and the House of Ibelin was a prestigious house, but would that be enough? However, if the king insisted that he take this burden, then he would. It was his duty to obey.

"Whatever you ask, I will serve," said Balian. The king lifted a hand to stop him.

"No," said Baldwin. "Hear it all before you speak."

There was more? What else could the king possibly ask of him? He was a soldier, not a diplomat.

"Would you marry my sister Sibylla were she free of Guy de Lusignan?"

At that question, Balian's heart almost stopped, only to resume beating much more rapidly than before. He wanted nothing more than to have Sibylla by his side; watching Guy dangle her in front of him was agony, even if the Poitevin lord had only done it once. But Sibylla was still married to Guy, and Guy commanded half the army. If his chance to become king was torn away from him, Balian had no doubt that the nobleman would rebel. A civil war was the last thing that this kingdom needed. "And Guy?" he asked.

"He would be executed," said Tiberias, who had not spoken a single word up until now, "along with all his knights who do not swear you allegiance."

One word. One word from him would be enough to condemn Guy. With so much power in his hands, Balian felt alone and uncertain, as if he was standing at the edge of a bottomless crevasse and in danger of falling in. The world would be a better place without Guy de Lusignan, but did Balian have the right to be Guy's judge and executioner? Wouldn't killing someone for his wife and power be considered murder? God, that was too much. He would not be able to live with himself. He had come to Jerusalem to seek forgiveness, not throw himself deeper into the fires of Hell. "I cannot be the cause of that," he said.

" 'Whatever you ask, I will serve'?" said Tiberias, throwing Balian's own words back at him. Was the man mad?

Balian glanced at Tiberias, but he did not respond. Instead, he turned to the king. "A king may move a man, you said," said Balian, "but the soul belongs to the man."

The king nodded. "So I did," he said.

"You have my love, and my answer," said the young baron, bowing. This was his decision to make, and if it was going to incur the wrath of both the king and the Marshal, then he would accept the consequences, but Balian was not about to willingly become a murderer.

Instead of unleashing his anger, the king simply nodded and sighed. "So be it," said Baldwin. He had half expected this outcome. Balian's refusal to accept the tempting offer might have doomed the kingdom, but it made the king respect him all the more. Sibylla had chosen well when she had chosen Balian for a lover. Perhaps, with such men living in it, God might take pity on the Latin Kingdom and spare it from destruction.

* * *

It was very late when Sibylla returned to the palace. Throughout the entire day, her heart had been beating like the wings of a sparrow which was being chased by a hawk. Tonight, she would have her answer, and she was certain that she would be free of Guy. She dismounted and prepared to go off in search of Raymond when a familiar voice called her name.

She stopped and turned. Balian. He was here. She approached him and clung to him as if he was her last refuge. He smelled of horse and sweat, but she didn't care. He was her knight, and soon to be her Prince Regent and her champion. "Who are you to refuse a king?" she asked breathily, rubbing her cheek against his bearded one. "I will have power, without Guy or with him." Yes, power. At last, she could determine her own destiny, after years of letting others determine it for her. "Guy isn't dead at your say-so or my brother's, but at mine."

Balian could not believe what he was hearing. This power-hungry and manipulative woman was not whom he had fallen in love with. What had happened to his passionate and loving Sibylla? Christ, was power really that corruptive? He freed himself from her embrace and gripped her by the shoulders.

"Do you have any idea of Jerusalem except that it is yours?" he demanded. Hurt and disappointment were evident in his voice. What was he to her? Did she love him at all, or was he simply a stepping stone to power and a way to free her from Guy? He could see the flame of wild ambition in her eyes. It seared him to the core. He felt like an utter fool. Of course, how could a princess such as Sibylla truly love him? He had been so naive, and she had used him. But Heavens, he still loved her!

"You will never hold it in peace, as your brother did," he said. Could she not see that? She did not have Baldwin's kindness or any of the qualities which made him a great king. "It will be war."

Sibylla pulled away from him. Who did he think he was? Just because she had favoured him with her attentions did not mean that he could lecture her on anything. What did he know about the politics of the kingdom? He was a blacksmith. "My grandfather took this city in blood," she said. There was a cold edge to her voice. "I will keep it the same way or any way I can."

That declaration chilled Balian's blood. He suppressed a shiver. 'So you would sacrifice your people to keep your power, Sibylla?' he thought. 'What about those whom you claim to love? Would you sacrifice me if there was ever such a need?' The thought of such a possibility made his heart bleed. He had thought that Sibylla loved him; he had only seen the good in her, but now, everything was revealed, and the truth was not beautiful. However, love would not relent. She still excited him and even now, his resolve was crumbling and he was tempted to agree to her every demand just so he could be with her. 'No, Balian,' he told himself. 'You must not.'

Sibylla could see Balian's inner turmoil. He was not a hard man to read. He was hesitating now, but perhaps only a little more persuasion would make him see reason. "I am what I am," she said. There was no need to make excuses for her behaviour. She had done nothing wrong; Jerusalem had been conquered by her ancestors and so was it not hers by right? "I give you that, and the world."

Her voice was so sultry, and the offer was so tempting. Balian's heart was touched by the desire that was evident in Sibylla's voice. He wanted to believe that she loved him, but he could not be the cause of another man's death. He simply could not. 'God help me,' he prayed, hoping that wherever God was, He would take pity on him and give him strength to do what he needed to do. 

Sibylla's lips wandered along the line of his jaw, and just as she was about to drown him in a hot kiss, he lifted his head. "No, Sibylla," he said. "I will not."

She leapt back, as if she had been burnt. "You say no?" she asked, furious at his rejection.

"Do you think I'm like Guy, that I would sell my soul?" he asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Did she not know how much he hurt? He loved her, and he wanted to be with her, but she was forcing him to choose between her and his conscience. He had to get away from here; if he lingered, he would surely capitulate, and his oath to his father would be broken, for he would be going against every principle the old knight had stood for if he did agree to condemn Guy.

No one had ever rejected Sibylla like this before. She could not bear the humiliation and the pain. The princess stormed away, only to turn back to Balian. He had broken her heart, and she was going to make him regret it. "There will be a day when you will wish you had done a little evil to do a greater good," she said, barely refraining from spitting the words out at him. She saw him stiffen. Good. Let the Perfect Knight live with this uncertainty. He deserved it.

* * *

**A/N:** I loved that scene when Balian defeated temptation. I just want to glomp him every time I see that bit.


	10. The Pain of Love

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer: **_Kingdom of Heaven_ was directed by Sir Ridley Scott and written by William Monahan. I don't own any of it, and I'm not making any profit. I'm just borrowing the story and the characters and making my own interpretation.

**Chapter 10: The Pain of Love**

To be confused was one of the most tormenting feelings that a man could have. The horse moved of its own accord underneath him. It knew its way home, but Balian, unlike his horse, did not know exactly where he would go next, or where he actually wanted to go. He held the reins loosely, all the while battling the urge to go back and beg Sibylla for forgiveness, even though he had done nothing wrong. His heart ached. He longed for her, loved her, and he would gladly die for her, but he could not sell his soul, not even for his Sibylla.

'Did you know?' he asked Godfrey inside his head. 'Did you know that to be a knight meant that I would have to suffer?' He felt the phantom sting as he remembered the slap that the old knight had given him at his knighting ceremony. Yes, of course Godfrey had known. He himself had been a knight, and he had told Balian through that slap that he would suffer. The man closed his eyes. He should be accepting this all with good grace; he had come to Jerusalem for forgiveness, after all, and this was his penance. However, his heart would not accept it quietly. He was torn.

"I do love you," he whispered into the cool night breeze, half hoping that it would carry his words to his princess.

* * *

When Sibylla returned, Youmna knew that something was not quite right with her mistress. Her breathing was harsh and uneven, as if she was feeling ill or trying to contain her temper. The maid did not have the courage to ask. One did not stick one's nose into Sibylla's business, and certainly not a maid.

"How dare he?" Sibylla kept on muttering under her breath. "How dare he tell me what I ought to do? What is he anyway?" A lord? No, he was not a lord. He was a blacksmith from France, playing at being a lord. Sibylla kept on trying to convince herself that Balian did not matter, that he was not worth her notice. She repeated those words so many times that she was almost certain that she believed them. However, if she did believe them, why then did she want to just run into his arms?

"I will have power, without Balian or with him," she whispered, clenching her hands into fists. It was not working. She still could not rid her mind of his kindly handsome face. His voice was still music to her ears. He was her rock, her fortification. Without him, she felt so alone and vulnerable. Why couldn't he understand that she was doing this all for Jerusalem, and for them as well? This was the only way they could be together. How else was she supposed to give Little Baldwin a proper father?

The sheer curtains billowed in the night breeze. It seemed to be whispering something to her. Sibylla shook her head and rubbed her temples. "Stop it," she told herself. For a moment, she was almost convinced that she heard Balian's voice on the breeze, but surely it had to be a figment of her imagination. Balian thought that she was a power hungry vixen who was trying to use him to get rid of Guy. 'But isn't he right?' said a voice inside her head. 'You want him to be your protector, your defence against Guy and his ilk. Without his cooperation, you cannot have power.'

"I will have power," Sibylla declared. Youmna jumped at the sound of her voice and dropped a pitcher of wine which she was carrying.

"I am sorry, milady," stammered the maid, terrified of what Sibylla would do. The princess' temper was unpredictable.

"Just go!" said Sibylla. "I have not the patience to suffer fools!"

Youmna scurried away, leaving the broken pieces of glass scattered in the puddle of wine on the floor. Sibylla stared at the fragments. Yes, that was her life, without Balian. It seemed so bleak. 

She cradled her head in her hands. Suffocating silence surrounded her. She longed to hear his voice, but pride prevented her from going to him. Besides, she had to be the Regent. It was not as if she had a choice.

* * *

The sky went from black to a deep blue to hues of red and orange. Balian poured himself yet another cup of wine and took a sip. It was tasteless. He was in no mood to enjoy the subtle flavours of fruit and cinnamon. It had been a sleepless night. Jerusalem felt like a great trap from which he could not escape. The air was so close, and he knew that rumours would soon be flying around. He wasn't sure if he could face that yet. He had to get away. Jerusalem was too complicated for him; at heart, he was a blacksmith's son. No title or achievement could change that.

He called for his steward. "Prepare my horse," he said. The man bowed and hurried to pass the master's message to the grooms. Balian stared at the cup of wine in his hand. He threw back his head and swallowed the remainder in one single gulp.

* * *

Little Baldwin could sense that his mother as upset, even though she was pretending that there was nothing wrong. He kept glancing at her as she went through his lessons with him, but the boy knew better than to ask. If his mother didn't want to tell, then no one could make her. He tried to focus on the map in front of him, but it just wasn't very interesting. He didn't care who was king of where. England and France only existed in stories for him, although he did want to see France. It would be nice to have green fields, and snow. The prince wondered what snow was like. Would it be like sand, only cold and white? He didn't really like sand. Sand got everywhere, and it wasn't comfortable when he got some in his eyes.

Sibylla pointed to a group of islands on the map. "What's that?" she asked her son. Teaching Baldwin did distract her from her troubles, but it wasn't enough distraction. So much was going on. Her brother was dying, and Balian had rejected her. With things going like this, Guy would soon be in control of Jerusalem.

"England," replied Baldwin promptly. That was easy. It was an island, and much easier to recognize than, say, bits of the Holy Roman Empire.

"And the king?" prompted Sibylla. The King of England was influential, and it was well known that Richard did intend to take the cross sometime in the future. Her son would do well to be prepared.

"Richard," said Baldwin, "and his father was Henry."

"Good," said Sibylla. Her son was learning quickly. That comforted her somewhat. To maintain this kingdom, he would need a sharp mind. There were so many traps in the court. How was he, a mere boy of eight, supposed to navigate his way around them? Sibylla feared that she would not be able to protect him adequately. Even she did not know all the intricacies of this kingdom, and the army was in the hands of dangerous men.

Sibylla pointed to another spot on the map. Baldwin knew this place. Like his mother, he spent much time dreaming about it. "France," said the boy. It seemed so far away, and yet he was always told that he was French because his ancestors had come from France. He looked up at his mother. "Will I ever see France?"

Sibylla paused. She had often asked the same question herself when she had been a little girl, and blissfully unaware of the harshness of cold reality. France was a place of dreams and stories. "Maybe one day," she answered, unwilling to shatter Baldwin's dream just yet, "but you must be king here." A shadow fell upon them. She glanced up. Raymond was here. Wasn't he supposed to be her brother? What did he want?

"The King will see you now," said the Marshal. The princess' breath caught in her throat. "No…" she began, and then tried to steady herself. She was to be her son's regent; she had to know how to talk to her subjects calmly and with dignity.

'But Raymond has known you for your entire life,' said a small voice inside her head; it was the voice of her child self. 'He's like a father to you. How can you hide anything from him? Why do you need to hide anything from him?' To be honest, she was tired of having two faces. The mask which she put on for the world taxed her.

"No," she said again, not daring to look up at Raymond, in case she burst into tears in front of her little boy. She was his mother; he should not have to see her so frail. He needed her to be strong for him. "I can't." Her soft voice was rough with pent up emotion. She feared seeing what her brother had become now; her imagination had conjured up visions of his ravaged face in her nightmares. She couldn't bear the thought of facing what had become of the once-proud King of Jerusalem. She remembered him as he had ridden into Jerusalem that day, sitting tall on his horse, with the wind playing with his dark tousled hair. His blue eyes had been so bright. The people had cheered him on. He had waved at them. Children had thrown flowers on the path. It was so hard to connect the image of that proud boy with this ruined shell of a man who wore a face of expressionless metal.

"I can't bear to look at him," she said, finally looking up at Raymond, hoping that he would understand her fears and spare her this ordeal. "He knows this. It doesn't mean I don't love him." It was because she loved him so much that she could not bear to see him in this pitiable state. She wanted to remember Baldwin as he had been; strong, tall, proud and handsome.

Raymond of Tiberias pitied the princess. He knew what she feared, but the king needed his sister. He loved her so much, and the Marshal knew that he would not go in peace until he had bid her farewell. Sibylla's face was pale. She needed someone to lean against. 'Ah, Balian,' thought the man. 'Where are you when we need you the most?'

"Go, madam," he said, trying to sound firm. Baldwin was the one who had the greater need. Sibylla could be comforted later. The king needed peace now.

Sibylla recognized that tone. It suffered no challenge. She got up and left her son still sitting at that low little table, staring after her. The door of the king's chamber beckoned like a dark maw from which she could not turn away. Translucent curtains moved gently in the slight breeze. Taking a deep breath, Sibylla stepped inside.

* * *

The desert sun was hot, scorching the land. Sparse dry bushes dotted the landscape, and rocks were scattered about. The desert was empty, as far as the eye could see, except for a man and his horse. Balian sat on the desert, trying to find some answer in the silence. Sweat beaded his skin, only to evaporate almost immediately in the dry air. The desert breeze brought no comfort, but he didn't care. His mind was too occupied.

The horse regarded her master through half closed eyes, wishing for a bite of grass, but glad that she did not need to move. She swished her tail. Sleep was upon her. Then she pricked her ears. Footsteps. Someone was coming. From the corner of her eye, she saw another man. No, that was no threat. The mare went back to dozing, occasionally flicking away insects with her tail.

Balian heard the sound of boots on the broken ground. He did not look up. "They said I would find you here," said Brother John.

"Why have you come?" said Balian. He didn't want company; he wanted to be alone with his thoughts and to pity himself. He felt so betrayed and used. What had Sibylla taken him for?

"I know what happened," said John. "Your heart is troubled."

"What's it to you?" said Balian, not even bothering to look at his friend. "You can't help me. You're a knight of one of the Holy Orders. What do you know about love?"

John sighed and shook his head. Balian had even inherited some of Godfrey's mulish temper. It would be hard to make him listen to anything at the moment. 'God, help me to guide him,' prayed the Hospitaller. 'Jerusalem needs him.'

* * *

**A/N:** So, what do you think? Thanks for reading.


	11. To See the Light

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer: **All the characters and events of _Kingdom of Heaven_ belong to Sir Ridley Scott and William Monahan, and, of course, History. I'm just borrowing them and writing my own interpretation.

**Chapter 11: To See the Light**

The walls and hangings muffled the sounds from outside. Many candles burned, but they did nothing to dispel the shadow which was falling over the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. It took a while for Sibylla's vision to adjust to the darkness of the king's chamber. It had been so long since she had set foot in here. The scent of incense could not conceal the underlying smell of decay which permeated the room.

She approached the bed where her brother lay; a pitiable and wasted figure. One bandaged hand rested on his chest. The other arm was outstretched; it was in the same position which the physician had left it. The silver mask was still in place, however. It was the same cold emotionless face which he showed the world; the face which was supposed to hide weakness.

With a shaking hand, the princess reached out and rested it on her brother's bandaged one, unsure of whether he would feel it or not. Baldwin stirred, and with what seemed like a great effort, opened his eyes. "Hello," he said. His voice was breathy and weak, but Sibylla's heart lurched at the sound of that benevolent tone. It was the same one which he had used with her all those years ago, before he had put on the silver mask.

The princess could not find her voice, for she was overcome with emotion. She mouthed a greeting, all the while trying to keep herself from breaking into tears.

"I was dreaming," her brother told her. "I was back in that summer when I defeated Saladin," And what a glorious day that had been. The sky blue pennants of Jerusalem, embroidered with the golden cross of Christ, had flown so proudly in the wind. Sibylla could still hear the ghosts of the crowd's deafening cheers in her mind. Somewhere outside, a peacock let out its mournful call, bringing her back to reality. Glory was such a fleeting thing. Who would have known that proud handsome boy riding triumphantly into Jerusalem would become this wasted figure?

"Do you remember it?" asked Baldwin. "I was only sixteen." Sibylla smiled down at her brother. Even though he was at Death's door, he was trying to comfort her. The mask concealed all facial expressions, but she felt that if she could see his face, he would be smiling back at her. Baldwin had always had a smile for her; she did not see how this cursed disease could change that. Of course she remembered that day when he had ridden in as the victorious monarch. How could she forget?

"You were a beautiful boy," she said, smiling down fondly at him although she was trying not to weep. The last thing her brother needed was more grief. He hated hurting anyone, especially her, and she didn't want him to blame himself for her sorrow. "You've always been beautiful, in every way." That was the blunt truth of it. The Baldwin whom she remembered had been as radiant as any angel from Heaven.

"My beautiful sister," said Baldwin, gazing up at her. He wanted his last thing he saw to be his sister's face, framed by her dark hair, so like his own before his body had started to decay. The king wished he could brush her tears away and stave off her grief as he had done so when he had been younger. Since their father had always been too busy to take much notice of them, and their mother had not been the most motherly of women, Baldwin and Sibylla had had to rely on each other. By leaving her now, he felt as if he was betraying her. "I'm sorry if I've caused you any pain." She would have to rely on someone else now; someone else would have to be her pillar, holding her up against the buffeting malicious winds of the court of Jerusalem.

Sibylla shook her head. No, how could he think that he would ever cause her pain on purpose. She hurt, yes, but that was not Baldwin's fault. Her voice caught in her throat. She couldn't speak. Outside, the sky was growing darker, as if it was going into mourning for the dying king. The soft breeze made the curtains move slightly, as if it was an angel arriving to take Baldwin back to his heavenly home. There was so little time, and so much still left unsaid. The princess bent down and placed a kiss on her brother's cold silver mask. As she straightened up, she saw his eyes still gazing at her, and she felt that he was smiling, even though she couldn't see it. Baldwin gave a small sigh, and his eyes closed. His body relaxed, as if he had fallen asleep. The breeze moved the curtains again, and then all was still. She knew he was gone.

Silent tears came, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Sibylla had never felt so alone in her life. Her lover had chosen virtue over her, and now her brother was gone. 'Be strong,' she told herself, but it was getting more and more difficult. Guy controlled half the army, and the lords controlled the rest. How was she, a woman who had not the strength to lift a sword, supposed to tame them?

"God, what is it that you want of me?" she asked, turning to the darkening sky. As usual, God did not answer her, or if He did, she didn't hear Him.

Sibylla left her brother to rest. He was in a better place, and she knew she ought not to worry about him anymore. There were other more pressing matters. "_Requiescat in pace_," said the princess to her brother, and then she stood. The mother of a young king-to-be did not have the privilege of grieving for long.

* * *

"The King is in Heaven."

To be honest, Balian had expected it; the sovereign had looked decidedly ill on the journey back to Jerusalem from Kerak, but the news still caused some shock. What would become of the kingdom now? As Balian pondered this, alone in the desert, he found no answer. King Baldwin, as far as he could tell, had been the last pillar holding up this disintegrating kingdom, and with him gone, it was vulnerable, for how could men such as Guy and Gerard de Ridefort keep the peace? Saladin surrounded them, and everyone knew that the Sultan had every intention of reclaiming Jerusalem for Islam.

The sun blazed down on him, and sweat ran down his face, but he felt no inclination to return to his house in the city. He had to get away; away from all those memories. Even though the kingdom was in peril, the only thing he could think of was Sibylla. Christ, he still loved her, even though she had tried to use him. Not a day went by when he did not wonder about her. With her brother dead, her son would be king. Even as he sat here in the dry dusty desert, the boy was being crowned.

Balian had only seen the child once, but he could not imagine him as king. He pitied the boy, for Baldwin V would have no time to be a child. The throne of Jerusalem was an unstable seat, and he could easily be toppled by more powerful men, such as his stepfather. 'If you had agreed to Sibylla's request, Balian,' said a voice in his head, 'you would have been the boy's stepfather, and you would have been able to protect them both.'

The man slammed his fist into his thigh, trying to drive that voice from his head. As time went on, he became less and less certain that denying Sibylla had been a wise decision, but how could he be the cause of a man's death? He simply couldn't do it. Perhaps he was just too weak.

It pained John to see Balian like this, uncertain and angry. How could the man protect Jerusalem when he couldn't even stay in the city? The Hospitaller felt as if he had failed him somehow; failed both Balian and Godfrey, for Godfrey had given him the responsibility of guiding his son. As he watched the man argue silently with himself, he knew that he had to do something to make him see light. His problems were nothing compared to the problems which the kingdom faced, and Jerusalem would need him before the end.

"Balian," he called. The young baron looked up, surprised to see the Hospitaller there.

"John?" said Balian. "How did you find me?"

"I thought you knew better than to ask me," said the Hospitaller. "Come. I must show you something." Balian got up and dusted himself off. John waited for him as he untied his horse and lead the animal towards the Hospitaller.

All was silent and still in the desert, save for a few hawks circling in the unblemished blue sky, searching for prey. In the distance, rocky mountains rose up like giants on the horizon, watching over everything that happened in the Holy Land. The summer had been very dry; so dry that the ground had cracked in some places. Dead thorn bushes dotted the landscape. The only things which moved were the two men, picking their way slowly across the desert.

John led Balian to the edge of a deep chasm. "How do you feel?" he asked, as they both peered down the rocky abyss. If anyone fell down, he would surely die.

"I suppose I fear that I might fall," Balian replied, not sure of what was so spectacular about the chasm.

"This is where the kingdom stands, at the edge of the cliff," said John. "And the kingdom, like you, can fall very easily, if someone just gives it the tiniest nudge. Do you want to fall, Balian?"

The man looked at John as if the Hospitaller had gone mad. Balian shook his head. "I thought not," said John. "It's up to you to step back from the chasm, just as it is up to men like you and me to pull the kingdom back from the brink of destruction."

Balian gave a bitter laugh. "Me?" he said. "What can I do? I'm not even important enough. I'm just a tool."

"God seldom chooses those in high positions to do his work," said John.

"God does not know me," said Balian. "How many times do I have to tell you that, John?"

The Hospitaller sighed. There was no arguing with an Ibelin when he was in this mood. Balian stepped away from the chasm's edge and sat back down, no more enlightened than he had been before. Perhaps his thoughts were still too muddled with passion and bitter love.

"I'm trying to help you see light," said John. "Look all around you. God is everywhere in the Holy Land, and yet you are trapped in darkness of your own making. You must look outside of your thoughts. Stare into the light until you become the light. I've done it many times."

Balian did not reply. Instead, he picked up a rock beside him and cast it at a sparse little bush in front of him, trying to relieve his own anger. The rock struck the hard ground beneath the bush and stayed there. Balian threw another rock. This one hit the first rock and created a spark of fire which landed on the bush, igniting it. Before the two men could so much as blink, the bush was engulfed in flames. The younger man smiled wryly, as if he had found the simple reason for an awe-inspiring mystery.

"There's your religion," he said, with underlying contempt in his voice. "There's your Moses." He got up and turned around to face John, and the Hospitaller could feel the man's frustration. He was like a lost sheep who could not find a way out of a maze of lies and deceit. It was as if someone had blindfolded him, and he could not see the truth even if it was right before his face. "I did not hear it speak."

"That does not mean that there is no God," said John patiently. This was his task, to bring this wayward servant of God back into the light. He had his duty, and Balian had his. He met the younger man's gaze and held it. A breeze came, as if it was God's answer to Balian's lack of faith. The pain he saw in those brown eyes filled him with compassion. 'No, you must not let him stray for any longer,' he thought.

"Do you love her?" John asked Balian. The baron was rather taken aback by the question. He hesitated. Should he answer it? Was there a reason why he shouldn't answer?

"Yes," replied Balian, honestly and simply. There was no doubt about it. He loved Sibylla more than he loved his life, but she had hurt him deeply when she had tried to use him as a means to secure power for herself.

"The heart will mend," said John. "Your duty is to the people of the city." Balian could not understand why John was saying this now, at this hour. How did he know that his heart would mend? John did not understand his pain. How could the Hospitaller speak of duty? He owed 

Jerusalem and its queen nothing. She was the one who owed him, for he had given both the kingdom and its queen so much, and all he had received in return was deceit.

In that moment of confusion, he heard his father's voice in his mind. "Safeguard the helpless," Godfrey had said. The people of Jerusalem were not responsible for his pain, and as a knight, he had to protect them, even if it meant sacrificing himself. That was what a knight was; a sacrifice on the altar of peace.

John smiled. Yes, Balian was beginning to see. God was slowly curing him of his blindness. "I go to pray," he said to the younger man.

"For what?" asked Balian.

"For the strength to endure what is to come," replied John.

"And what is to come?" asked Balian, momentarily confused. Why was it that holy men had to be so cryptic? Could they not speak plainly for once?

"The reckoning is to come for what was done a hundred years before," said John, placing a hand on Balian's shoulder. "The Muslims will never forget." He turned away from the younger man and began to walk away, but then he stopped, and glanced back with his characteristic expression of calm amusement. "Nor should they."

The Hospitaller's footsteps faded into the distance. Balian watched him go, but then a crackling noise caught his attention. The first creosote bush had been burnt to nothing, but now a second one, some distance away, had caught fire of its own accord. As the man watched the little plant burst into flames, he wondered if John was indeed right, and that God was there, watching him and sending him signs to guide him. Balian turned back to the direction in which John had gone, for he wanted to tell the Hospitaller about what had just happened and to ask him a few more questions, but John had disappeared, as if he had been taken up to Heaven to meet God face to face.

Balian went to his horse and swung into the saddle. Digging his heels into the animal's flanks, he urged it into a canter. It was growing late, and it was time to return to Jerusalem.

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry about the lack of updates. I've just been a little busy with writing the new crossover and my course work.


	12. Price of Power

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters or the storyline. This is just my interpretation of Sir Ridley Scott's film, _Kingdom of Heaven_.

**Chapter 12: Price of Power**

Sibylla's mind was reeling with all the changes. There was so much she had to do, but she was not ready to deal with the affairs of state yet. First, there was her brother's funeral. Simply thinking about Baldwin's death made her want to weep again, but she knew she couldn't. She was the greatest authority in the kingdom now, as the mother of the uncrowned king, and she had to be strong; stronger than the foundations of Jerusalem itself.

Outside her window, the sky blue standards of the kingdom fluttered against a pale grey sky. The sun, usually blazing brightly down on the Holy Land, was nowhere to be seen. The princess could not help but feel as if God had turned away from her and the kingdom.

'You mustn't think like that,' she told herself. There was no time for morbid thoughts. She had to prepare for her brother's funeral and for her son's coronation.

"Youmna!' she called. The maid came in and curtseyed.

"Milady?" she said.

"Send for the Lord Marshal," said the princess. "I must consult him about matters concerning the coronation."

"As you wish, milady," said Youmna. As she dipped another curtsey, she glanced up at Sibylla. The maid had never seen her so haggard, as if she had not slept well for many nights. Underneath the face powder, her complexion was pale and she seemed almost translucent, as if she was fading away from exhaustion. The maid opened her mouth, and then hesitated. Sibylla was a princess, and she was only a handmaiden. What right did a handmaiden have to tell a princess what to do? However, Youmna knew that it was her duty to serve her mistress' best interests. "Milady, perhaps you should rest for a while," she ventured.

Sibylla sighed. "I cannot rest, Youmna," she said. "There is too much to do."

"You cannot work if you are half-alive, milady," said the maid, more firmly this time. At least Sibylla had not snapped at her; that was a good sign.

"Very well. Send of the Lord Marshal. I shall rest after I have seen him."

* * *

The entire city was mourning the king. People filled the street, clutching candles in their hands. They were holding a vigil for Baldwin and praying that God would take his spirit up to Heaven. All the noblemen were gathered at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; all, except one certain elusive baron of Ibelin.

Sibylla knew why he wasn't there, and it had nothing to do with the late king. At any rate, it was probably a good thing that he was absent. She did not know if she could face him just yet. His words echoed in her mind continuously. "Do you have any idea of Jerusalem except that it is yours?" he had said. "You will never hold it in peace." She could still hear the disgust in his voice. His rejection had humiliated her and that humiliation was a thorn in the heart of the proud princess of Jerusalem. 'I was a fool to place my hopes in him,' she thought as she passed the gathered nobles.

Everything inside the church seemed so dark. The colours of the paintings on the walls were muted as if the city itself was mourning the loss of Baldwin. Sibylla's black dress trailed on the old stone floor. Baldwin's coffin had been placed before the altar, as if he was being presented before God to be judged. He lay there, as if he was asleep. His face, that silver mask which hid the true Baldwin, was emotionless as always.

The princess gazed down at her brother. Even the scent of incense could not hide the underlying taint of decay which emanated from the dead king. With shaking hands, she reached out and took hold of the edges of the mask. She wanted to see her brother's true face one last time before they locked him in a cold stone vault forever.

The mask came away easily in her hands, as if Baldwin actually wanted her to see what he was like beneath it. Sibylla gasped when she saw what the mask hid. Here was another face, but she could not believe that this ravaged face belonged to her brother, just as she had never thought of the mask as Baldwin's face. She forced herself not to turn away, despite the revulsion which welled up within her. Baldwin had told her to remember him as he had been. Now, looking back, Sibylla felt as if he had somehow known that she would take off his mask. She replaced the mask, but the memory of the leper's face stayed with her, haunting her memories. She tried to recall what Baldwin had looked like as a triumphant young king, riding through the streets of Jerusalem to celebrate his victory over Saladin, but no matter how hard she tried, all she could see was the ravaged face of the leper with the pale decaying flesh.

'That is the kingdom of Jerusalem,' said a voice inside her mind. 'It was glorious in the days of your forebears, and it was proud, but it had started decaying from within. For years, this decay was hidden behind a beautiful facade of strength, but now in its weakened state, the ugly truth will be revealed.'

"It will not be that way," Sibylla whispered, refusing to believe it. "I will make Jerusalem glorious and proud again." It was a promise, and the princess resolved to do anything she could to make that happen.

* * *

Church bells rang in the city of Jerusalem. Today, the new king would ascend his throne. The entire city waited with trepidation. Little Prince Baldwin was only nine years old. Once again, the entire court, with the exception of Balian, had gathered at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Pale sunlight filtered in through the stained glass windows, illuminating the interior. Gone were the funereal decorations. This was a joyous occasion.

The noblemen bowed as Baldwin and Sibylla passed them. A standard bearer went before them, carrying the standard of the kingdom. The princess' long clumsy golden ceremonial robes trailed behind her and the child was struggling with his own white ceremonial robes. He seemed to be trying not to trip. Guy walked behind them with his helmet under his arm. The little boy was clutching his mother's hand tightly. Sibylla glanced down proudly at him and gave his fingers a squeeze. Nothing would go wrong; she had taught him too well for that. It was utterly silent as Baldwin and Sibylla approached the throne. Raymond was standing there beside the throne, giving them silent encouragement. She smiled, grateful for his support. It seemed as if he was the only man in the entire court on which she could rely.

When mother and son reached the steps which led up to the throne, Sibylla released Baldwin's hand. "Go on," she whispered, giving him a little nudge. Little Baldwin stepped forward and stood before the throne. He seemed to be trying to stop himself from shaking. The child took a deep breath.

A cardinal had come to Jerusalem specifically to crown the new king. He indicated for Baldwin to kneel to take his oath.

"I, Baldwin, swear to be a faithful defender of the Church," began the child, remembering the words which his mother had made him repeat over and over again. "And I swear also to abide by the ancient customs of the Kings of Jerusalem and King Baldwin, my predecessor of blessed memory."

The cardinal held out his arms. "Behold your rightful king and heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Jerusalem!" he declared.

The gathered noblemen cheered. "Hail!" they cried. "Hail! All hail King Baldwin!" The vaulted roof of the church magnified their echoing voices until it seemed as if all of Jerusalem was cheering for the new king. Sibylla watched on. Pride filled her heart. Her boy was the king, and she would make sure that he would be the best king Jerusalem had ever seen.

The cardinal proceeded to bless Baldwin and to anoint him with oil. "Benedicimus domine," he intoned as he drew a cross on the child's forehead with the sacred oil. Behind the cardinal, a Templar carried the cushion on which the specially made crown and signet ring of the king rested. The cardinal now took the ring. Baldwin instantly held out his hands in a most kingly fashion, and the cardinal slipped the ring onto his finger before picking up the small crown reverently with both hands. The king of Jerusalem was not just any other king, but king of the holiest city in the world.

Baldwin's breathing quickened. He knew how serious it was to be king, and he was afraid that he would not be able to fulfil his duties. He was only nine years old, and he knew that he didn't know enough. 'Please God,' he prayed. 'Help me.' The crown was placed on his head and two servants helped him to his feet. The little boy climbed onto the throne. It was much too big for him and as he sat on it, he felt as if it had consumed him. His feet barely touched the footstool.

Raymond and Brother John now came forward. The Marshal handed the sceptre to the child while the Hospitaller handed him the orb, the two objects which signified the power of a king. Baldwin did everything as his mother had taught him. He knew she was watching his every move. When the two men moved away, he glanced briefly back at her. She was smiling.

"Long live the king in prosperity!" declared the bishop.

"Long live the king!" cried the assembled crowds. "Long live King Baldwin!"

From his place behind Sibylla, Guy smiled. His hour had come at last, for his wife was queen in all but name. He touched Sibylla's elbow with his gloved hand, making her flinch, but she understood his message. Tonight, they would seal their bargain. Little Baldwin would have Guy's allegiance, and Guy would have his wife.

* * *

Sibylla let Youmna help her take off her ceremonial robes. Her muscles ached from holding herself so upright and regally all day. She sat down before her dressing table. The maid took the pins out of her hair and brushed it until it flowed like dark silk down her back. "It was a tiring day for you, wasn't it, milady?" said the maid.

"You were there, Youmna," said Sibylla. "I know you were watching from outside. Did it look easy to you?"

"Not at all," said the maid, glad that Sibylla was in a good enough mood to banter. "If I were in your place, I would have been trying not to trip over that long dress of yours."

"I have practised walking around in absurdly long dresses for many years," said Sibylla, trying to see her reflection in the blurry copper mirror. "You learn, in the end."

A knock on the door made both women stiffen. Youmna peeked through the crack. There stood Lord Guy, still fully armoured. He seemed to have been drinking, for he sway as he stood there. "Sibylla!" he called. "Sibylla, open the door!" The maid gave the princess an enquiring look. Should they send for the guards?

"Let him in," said Sibylla, standing up. "Go and get some rest, Youmna. It will be another long day tomorrow, and I will have need of your services. Until then, you are dismissed." The maid curtseyed and quickly went to open the door. Guy staggered in, and she quickly went past him to go to the servants' quarters. Something was going on; why would Sibylla let Guy into her bed? They had been married for six years and not once had Sibylla let him into her quarters, much less her bed chamber. Why the change? The maid shook her head. What Sibylla did was Sibylla's business, but she couldn't help wishing that the princess had married the baron of Ibelin instead. He was good for her, and for all of them.

* * *

Guy lurched into Sibylla. She could smell the wine on his breath. Oh God. Not only did she have to spend the night with Guy, but she also had to spend the night with his darker side. "Sibylla," he slurred, reaching out for her with rough calloused hands. He grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him. She almost lost her balance, but she tried her best to keep her composure. Guy was drunk, but still lucid enough to know what was going on.

"My lord husband," she said. "Perhaps you should lie down."

"Oh yes, I would like that," said Guy. His fingers were still wrapped around her wrist and his other hand was groping and squeezing her as if she was a lump of dough and he was the baker.

'Endure,' she told herself. 'Endure it for Baldwin's sake.' She led Guy over to the bed. He fell onto it and pulled her down with him. Within moments, he was kissing her. Sibylla forced herself to kiss him back, all the while trying to pretend that this was one of those joyous nights she had spent with Balian in Ibelin.

"I know he had you," mumbled Guy. "That bastard had you, didn't he?" Sibylla didn't answer. How could she when he already knew everything? She just hoped that he wouldn't try to hurt Balian. Oh, Balian. Where was her knight when she needed him the most?

Guy's rough hands tore at her thin silken nightgown. She wanted to scream. He was straddling her now, and his weight, combined with that of his armour, was immense. She couldn't breathe. "Guy," she gasped. "My lord! This armour is very uncomfortable."

Guy grunted. "Then take it off me!" he said. With fumbling fingers, she undid the ties and he flung off the chainmail. The quilted gambeson underneath was stained with sweat. That came off too and landed on the back of a nearby chair. He took hold of her again and brought his mouth down onto her neck. His beard chafed the delicate skin of her throat. His roughed fingers pawed at her body and explored every part of her. She wanted to push him away, but they had made a bargain, and she had to keep her side of it if her son was to sit safely on his throne.

Sibylla swallowed. Her mouth was dry with fear. Balian had been so tender and gentle with her. Tears came to her eyes as she thought of his sweet caresses and his soft husky voice calling her name. Bitter regret filled her heart. He had loved her and her ambition had cost her that love.

'You have chosen your path, Sibylla,' she told herself. 'Now you must follow it to the end.'

* * *

**A/N:** The coronation scene is a slightly amended version of the one in 'Deleted Scenes' (on disc four of the Director's Cut version). This chapter was a difficult one to write, possibly because there was no Balian. I hope you enjoy it anyway.


	13. Why?

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything that you recognize. The characters and the plot belong to Sir Ridley Scott and William Monahan, and History.

**Chapter 13: Why?**

Rumbling drunken snores penetrated the darkness. Sibylla lay wide awake, staring at the canopy above her. The sweaty sheets were twisted around her body, hiding her shame and nakedness. Beside her, Buy snorted and then rolled over so that his back was turned to her. That was better, but only just. Her body still hurt from his brutish touches, and she knew she would find bruises blossoming on her pale skin the next morning. It hadn't been like this with Balian.

A lump grew in her throat as she remembered the tender touches of her gentle knight. Every caress had spoken of love. She supposed that she would never feel those caresses again. He had rejected her, and hurt her pride in every way possible. She had expected him to return to his little fief at Ibelin and stay there, becoming just another baron who regarded her with cold distant courtesy. Why he was still in Jerusalem was a mystery, for he never showed his face at court, probably because he was loathe to see her. Perhaps he was still here because he had business to settle before he could go back to Ibelin? That was the only rational explanation. However, in her heart, there was a little voice whispering to her, telling her that he was here because even though he did not want to see her, he was even more reluctant to leave her.

'Maybe we should both let go of the past, Balian,' she thought. 'Let go of dreams which could never have been. May you find more happiness than I have; God knows that you deserve it. I shall cherish the memory of our time at Ibelin and your love, even though I am not so deserving of it.' She had forfeited that love when she had chosen the throne, and Jerusalem.

* * *

Papers lay piled up close to the edge of the gilded table. Outside, a peacock let out a mournful wail, breaking her concentration. Sibylla flexed her hand; it ached after writing with a quill for so long. Ink stained her fingers. Thankfully, it could be disguised as smudged henna if one did not look too closely.

The peacock called again, and the princess could not resist turning to look out the window which opened out to the gardens. The proud creature strutted past, with its colourful shimmering tail feathers trailing in the ground behind it like the long train of court robes. It cocked it head at her, as if analyzing her character, and then called out again, shattering what peace there was in the palace. She could not help but smile as the bird reminded her of the men at court who always seemed so amiable, until they opened their mouths to speak, bringing before her all sorts of troubling situations.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of one such man, for Heraclius, Patriarch of the holiest city in Christendom, had just entered her sitting room. Sibylla quickly turned her attention back to her work, not wanting the churchman to know that she found it oddly amusing that he though her actions important enough to forfeit the embraces of Madame La Patriarchesse to scrutinize her every move.

The princess inconspicuously glanced in the bishop's direction. He was leaning over her shoulder, craning his neck so that he might read her letter to the sultan. Sibylla suppressed the urge to laugh. There was so little to smile about now that even the least amusing thing made her want to giggle as if she was a child who had been given a pastry. One had to somehow find joy in life.

Instead, she handed the letter to Heraclius so that he would not have to hurt the muscles in his holy neck.

"Is this wise, milady?" asked Heraclius, looking down at Sibylla's offers to Saladin. "You show your intentions very clearly; peace to be sustained, trade continued, borders respected. It would be better, surely, to let the infidels wonder?"

"The sultan of the Muslims has an army of two hundred thousand men, Excellency," said Sibylla. "All the Arab princes bow to him. If we make him wonder too much, he will get suspicious. What do you think he will do with his impressive army then? You must know by now that it is not just something to be gawked at."

The patriarch of Jerusalem opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Sibylla gave him her most regal and benevolent smile, and then took her letter back from him. She passed the letter to Baldwin, who was sitting to her left. He had been swinging his legs idly throughout the entire exchange. He had not understood any of it, and Sibylla was certain that he was wishing that they would hurry up and let him finish signing all the letters so that he could go out and play in the gardens.

"This is the last one, _mon chèri_," she said softly so that only he could hear. "Sign." The little boy did as he was told, trying his very best to write his name in a straight line beneath his mother's flowing script. The quill did not suit his hand very well, having been fashioned for a man instead of a child. However, he managed to write legibly, and without smudging any of the ink. Saladin would probably be amused at the thought of such a small child writing letters to him, or at least signing letters which had been written for him. Sibylla had heard how compassionate the sultan was to children and their mothers, no matter whether they were Christians, Muslims or Jews.

"Good," said Sibylla. "Now, take the seal." The child picked up the lead seal, which was much too big for his childish hand. It further stressed the obvious fact that he was ill-suited to his role as king of a kingdom which was crumbling away like a cliff face being battered by relentless rain. 'Jerusalem will not fall,' thought Sibylla, hardening her resolve. Balian had said that there would be war; she would prove him wrong.

A servant beside the young king dipped a ladle into a pot of hot black liquid wax. "Careful," said Sibylla as the servant poured wax onto the letter's lower right corner, much like the way one would pour soup into a bowl. As a child, she had once gotten scalded by hot sealing wax, and it had made her wary of it ever since.

As the ladle was taken away, some of the wax dripped onto Baldwin's hand. The child did not even flinch. Sibylla's heart almost stopped. No, it couldn't be!

* * *

The last thing Raymond of Tiberias had expected was for the princess of Jerusalem to rush into his study unannounced and completely flustered. "Milady?" he said, getting up from his seat and limping over to her. "Is something the matter?"

"I don't know," she said, looking around frantically. "Can I speak with you, in private?" The Marshal had never seen her so frightened before. He nodded and quickly led her to the anterior part of his study.

With one wave of his hand, he sent his servants away. "What is it, Sibylla?" he asked; he was so worried about her that he did not notice that he had called her by her name. He had not done that ever since she'd been younger than the little king.

"I need a good physician, and I need one who won't talk," she said. "I think Baldwin..."

"What is wrong with the king?" said the Marshal softly. Sibylla shook her head.

"I don't know, Tiberias," she said. "Please, find me that physician."

Raymond had never seen Sibylla so distraught, and it unsettled him to see her like this. "All right, Sibylla. Calm down. I will find a physician to look at the king. Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Bit by bit, Sibylla told Raymond about how Baldwin had not even flinched when the hot wax had made contact with his skin. As the count listened, he felt his blood drain from his face, and a weight seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach like lead. God, no, this could not be happening! He took a few deep breaths and hoped that he was only being an old fool. How could one family be so cursed? 'Stay strong,' he told himself. 'If not for your sake then for Sibylla's and the kingdom's.' With Balian and Sibylla estranged, he was the princess' only support.

* * *

Yusuf ibn Rashid was a quiet man. He was one of the most sought out apothecaries in Jerusalem, but he preferred to treat the poor rather than those who tried to entice him with vast amounts of gold and silver. There was satisfaction in helping those who could not afford to pay for proper medical care. Allah had decreed that charity was part of a good Muslim's life.

Therefore, when his assistant told him that the Marshal of Jerusalem was looking for him, Yusuf's first instinct was to avoid the man. Why would the Marshal come and find him? Weren't there enough good physicians up in the palace? However, as he thought about it more clearly, he decided that offending the Marshal was not a good idea.

He collected his equipment and went to greet the man. Yusuf had only ever seen the Marshal from a distance, but he remembered an imposing figure whose very manner commanded respect, even from those who knew little about him. He immediately bowed. "Salaam aleikum," he said.

"Wa aleikum asalaam," replied the Marshal, indicating that Yusuf should straighten himself. Up close, the man was even more impressive. One old battle scar ran down the side of his face. He was very lucky not to have lost an eye, Yusuf realized. He shuddered inwardly as he imagined the battles which this man would have seen. Being a healer, the notion of ending lives sickened him.

"The king of Jerusalem is in need of your services," said the Marshal in fluent Arabic. "Do not ask any questions, and you must not speak of this to anyone, under the pain of death. Do you understand?"

Yusuf nodded. Ai! Why did these things happen to him? He followed the man through the winding backstreets of Jerusalem towards the palace. After all, he did not have any choice in the matter.

* * *

Sibylla led her son into the darkened room. "Mama, why are we here?" he asked. "It is not time to sleep yet." He looked up at her with bright eyes, and his confusion was evident. His mother had been acting oddly lately, as if she was sad about something. Of course, his uncle had just died, and he knew that his mother missed him very much, even though she did not mention it.

"I know," said Sibylla, forcing herself to smile. There was no point in scaring the child. She made him lie down on the bed in the centre of the room. The maids had lit the sticks of incense, and smoke curled through the air.

Baldwin wriggled and made himself comfortable. He didn't want to be here. The sun was shining outside. He just wanted to go and play. Youmna had promised him that she would take him to see the newly hatched peacocks.

There was a soft knock on the door. "Milady," came Raymond's voice. Sibylla opened the door to let him in.

"Lord Raymond!" cried Baldwin, grinning and sitting up. "You're not busy today?"

"Not so busy today, Your Majesty," said Raymond, bowing to the little king. Baldwin giggled. It was funny to be called 'majesty' when he wasn't even nine years old. Really, he'd much rather not be king; it wasn't much fun at all. There were too many rules, and while he didn't mind practising his letters, writing his name over and over again on letters he couldn't even read was very boring.

"Are you going to play with me?" asked the boy hopefully.

"Perhaps later," said Raymond. "I have brought two guests with me." He nodded at the two Saracens. One of them immediately pulled out a cloth puppet with a wooden head. Baldwin clapped his hands in delight, and paid no attention to anything else.

As for Sibylla, nothing existed except the physician and her son. The man pricked the boy's foot with a needle. Blood trickled down the sole. Baldwin continued to giggle at the puppeteer's antics. The physician pricked his foot again, closer to the heel this time. Nothing. He glanced up at the princess and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Blood roared in Sibylla's ears. In her heart, she had known, but she had wanted to be proved wrong. The physician was not meant to confirm her fears! No, no. He had to be wrong! But the evidence was clear. There was no way she could deny it. Tears blurred her vision. She staggered backwards and pressed herself against the wall with the carvings digging into her back.

Why, God? Why?

* * *

**A/N: **I'm very sorry I've taken so long to update. I promise I will finish this story.


	14. Weeping Angels

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer: **I own neither the plot nor the characters of _Kingdom of Heaven_. They belong to Sir Ridley Scott, William Monahan, and history.

**Chapter 14: Weeping Angels**

Why? That was the question that Sibylla kept asking, even as she played her part in her bleak grey world of politics and intrigue. In her eyes, the colour and vibrancy of Jerusalem had been stripped away, leaving only bare hard rock. She would give up her power, her city, just to save her son. The thought of watching him become a masked ghost as her brother had done was unbearable.

The words on the piece of paper before her made no sense, even though she was the one writing them. Her quill moved slowly, sometimes pausing above the paper with a droplet of ink hanging from the tip.

It pained Raymond to see Sibylla like this. This was but a shadow of what she had been. This disease was not only slowly taking away the young king's life, but it was also leeching the life from his mother. He watched her write, knowing that she had to acknowledge the truth soon. A king's mother could not afford to live in a dream. And in Jerusalem, the gossips had been hard at work. He did not doubt the physician, but someone else must have seen the young king's reaction to pain; someone like Heraclius. Something had to be done, or else the storm would be enough to raze Jerusalem to the ground.

"There is a rumour," he began slowly. Sibylla looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. Her face was pale and gaunt as if she was a walking corpse. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes which even the face powder could not hide. "We must condemn it immediately," said the Marshal. "If we show the boy as active—" He never got to finish his sentence, for Sibylla let out a loud cry. Raymond had never heard so much anguish and pain in one single cry. She stood up abruptly, pushing her chair to the floor.

"How long before he wears a mask?" she demanded. Her entire body was tense, as if she was preparing for a fight. "Will you have one made for him?" Raymond could only stare at her. Was there any other choice? "How? How did my boy deserve it?"

The Marshal shook his head. No one deserved such a curse, especially not a young child. "Jerusalem is dead, Tiberias," said Sibylla. Her voice was tight and coarse, and he could tell that she was trying to hold back sobs. "No kingdom is worth my son alive in Hell." Her resolve broke, and the tears flowed. "I will go to Hell instead." That declaration was naught but a broken whisper, but there was so much resolve and strength behind it that it might as well have been a shout. Raymond did the only thing he could. He drew Sibylla into his arms and held her, comforting her as he had once did when she had been a little girl.

She clung to him, weeping into his surcoat, her frail body shaking with every hiccup and sob. The sky outside darkened, but no one came in to light the candles. The servants knew better than to come in without the princess' permission. They did not know why, but her temper had been very short of late, and it was in their own interests not to incur her wrath.

At last, she pushed herself away from him and wiped away her tears with the heel of her hand, smudging the kohl around her eyes in the process. "I'm sorry, Raymond," she said. "It's just that I'm so..."

"I know," said Raymond. "Get some rest, Sibylla. I know you have not slept for many nights, and that's not going to help. We can talk about this in the morning."

* * *

Morning came, and with it, grey storm clouds. It would rain soon, but Sibylla doubted that it would wash away her pain. She reclined on a couch beneath a canopy which the servants had set up in the gardens for her, watching her son play with his pewter knight and soldiers. He was so beautiful and happy, as every little boy should be. A wave of love washed over her, and her heart constricted at the thought of such beauty being stripped away by the decay of leprosy. The bottle of ivory hidden within her robes felt as it if was crushing her. Sibylla got up and knelt before her son.

"Are you going to play with me, Mama?" asked Baldwin, grinning up at her. His mother never played soldiers with him, and the thought of her breaking that rule made her very happy. However, there was one thing he liked more than toy soldiers, and that was listening to tales about knights.

Sibylla forced herself to smile. "What would you like to play?" she asked.

"I want a story, please?" he asked, looking up at her with large blue eyes.

"All right then," said Sibylla, taking off her silken veil so that for once, she might forget that she was a princess and simply be a mother. "Do you remember the story of Louan?"

"Was he a knight?" asked Baldwin.

"Yes," said Sibylla. "He was a knight, and he lived in a castle in France with his only son. You see, his wife had when the boy was only a baby, and Louan loved her too much to marry again."

"Did he fight the Saracens?" asked the child.

"No, no. There are no Saracens to fight in France. He did fight demons and great monsters with sharp teeth and breath like ice."

"Like the desert djinn?"

"France doesn't have deserts, darling."

"Then what does France have?"

Sibylla smiled wistfully. Like mother, like son. They were both fascinated by France, and for them, it had become synonymous with paradise. "Lush green fields as far as the eye can see. The sky is a clear blue with wisps of clouds floating in it like little boats carrying the angels. The air is never dusty; instead, it is filled with the scent of flowers," she said. "That's where Louan lived, in his castle on a hill, with his son.

"Then one day, he went home to find that Satan had come to his home. The Lord of Darkness was about to take Louan's son off to Hell. There was nothing Louan could do about it. He prayed, but the God seemed not to hear, and the angels seemed to have forgotten about him. And so, Louan made a bargain with the Devil. His son would be taken to somewhere safe, while Louan would be a cursed for having made a deal with Satan."

"What was the curse?" whispered the little king. Sibylla took a deep breath.

"Everyone hated him because of what he did to save his son," she said. "They turned him out of his castle and drove him from France into a place where the sun never shone. It was always cold and icy, and there was nothing there."

"What about the son? Did he grow up and save his father?"

"Do you know where that safe place was?"

Baldwin shook his head. "Heaven," said Sibylla, her voice breaking. "He couldn't save his father even if he had wanted to."

"So what did Louan do?"

"He travelled through the icy land, far away from Christendom, until he came to the tallest mountain in the world. He climbed it, and found nothing on top except more ice and rocks. In his desperation, he called out to all the pagan gods."

"Why?"

"Because he was desperate for a proof of love. Louan didn't want to be alone."

"Did they answer him?"

Sibylla paused for a moment. "No," she finally said. "They didn't answer him because they weren't real, and he had put his trust in a dream. Louan died a lonely man."

"That's not a very nice story, Mama," said Baldwin, looking at her dolefully.

"I know, _mon chèri_," said Sibylla, "but the world is not always nice." The child clambered into her lap, and she wrapped her arms around him.

"I didn't like that story," he said, trying not to cry. "It's too sad." He looked up at her. "I'm tired, Mama."

"So am I," said Sibylla, leading her son over to the couch where she had been reclining some moments ago. "Shall we rest for a little while?" Baldwin nodded. Soon, he was asleep in his mother's embrace. She sang to him as he slept. It was the same lullaby her nurse had sang to her when she had been a little girl. Her mother had been the least likely person who would sing for her children.

As she sang, Sibylla pulled out the bottle from the folds of her robes. Youmna had bought it for her in the bazaar. The workmanship was excellent. The surface was covered with carvings of biblical figures. One of them was the Virgin Mary, holding the Christ Child. At the edges of these images was the _Shahada_, declaring that there was no God but Allah, and that Mohammed was his messenger.

Sibylla took the stopper from the mouth of the bottle and then tipped a very small amount of the milky liquid within into Baldwin's ear. 'I will go to Hell for you, _mon chèri_,' she thought. As Baldwin's breathing became fainter and fainter, so did Sibylla's singing. At last, the child's breathing stopped altogether. Thunder rumbled in the sky, and the rain began to fall, drenching the gardens within moments. The angels were weeping.

* * *

The heavy footfalls made Youmna whip around. There stood Sibylla, soaked to the skin and carrying an equally wet Baldwin in her arms. The child seemed to be asleep, oblivious to everything that was happening. The first thing the handmaiden noticed was Sibylla's pallor. "Milady?" she asked. This was most odd. Usually, Sibylla was most meticulous about her appearance. She would never look so bedraggled.

The princess appeared not to notice her and walked right past the maid, as if Youmna did not exist at all. Tenderly, she laid her child down on a long couch and brushed a few strands of wet hair away from his peaceful face. Youmna slowly approached her mistress. Something was definitely wrong. "Milady," she tried again. "His Majesty will catch his death of cold. Shall I—"

"No, leave him be," said Sibylla softly, turning to the handmaiden. "He is at peace."

It was then that Youmna noticed how still the young king was. She had known about his disease, but surely he would not succumb so quickly? Then she looked at Sibylla, and her hand flew to her mouth. No words would come out; they were not needed.

"Speak of this to no one," she said. "Now, go and fetch the Lord Marshal. Tell him that it is urgent."

* * *

The small bejewelled casket sat before the altar. Inside, dressed in his silken royal robes, lay the young king. His face looked so peaceful that if he had not been lying in a coffin, one would have thought that he was sleeping. His hands lay folded on his abdomen, and the tiny crown, the one which Raymond had had made especially for him, was on his head. He went to God as a king.

Sibylla heard none of Heraclius' sermon. She only had eyes for her son, who was soon to rest with his father in the crypt of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The lid was placed on the casket, and the coffin itself was taken down to the crypt. Sibylla followed them. She would watch her son for as long as she could.

With her were Raymond and Guy, who was playing the part of the dutiful husband. The former kept glaring at the latter. Everyone knew that Guy did not mourn the passing of the boy; with Baldwin gone, he would be king. His marriage with Sibylla would make sure of that.

'Why do Ibelins have to be so damn honourable?' thought Raymond. Then again, maybe that was why he respected them so much, but sometimes, it was very inconvenient.

* * *

Life had taught Raymond that things could always become worse, but he had not been expecting so much grave news on the same day as little Baldwin's funeral. After he had returned to his own house, a servant announced that John of the Hospitallers was here to see him.

"What news do you bring?" asked the Marshal, after he had greeted his guest properly. "I hope that you will be able to tell me something good on this grave day."

"Actually, I come to tell you more bad news," said John. "There was an attempt on Balian's life, and he was badly wounded, although he lives still. We have hidden him in a hospital. I need you to spread the news that he is dead. That is the only way to stop Guy from trying again."

"What about Sibylla?" asked Raymond. "What do I tell her?"

"The same," said John. "The fewer people who know the truth, the better."

'God help me,' thought the Marshal. He knew it would be cruel to tell her that the man she loved was dead, but he had no choice. This was for the sake of the kingdom, and for Balian's too. 'I hope you will forgive me, Sibylla. I am doing it for your lover, and for you.'

* * *

**A/N: **Here's another update to make up for the lack of them in the past month or so. I would have included the fight scene in the desert, but this is Sibylla's story, and if I did write that fight scene, I would be too busy drooling over the knight. :P


	15. What Have I Done?

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Disclaimer: **The plot and characters of _Kingdom of Heaven_ belongs to Sir Ridley Scott, William Monahan, and history. I don't own anything.

**Chapter 15: What Have I Done?**

She was alone in the crypt with her son, save for the echoes and bitter memories of brighter days. In her hand, she held a pewter knight. It had been Baldwin's favourite toy. She was still mouthing the words to the song she had been singing when he had fallen asleep forever. Sibylla felt dry, as if all her tears had been drained from her. The grief, however, had not lessened, nor had the guilt. Had she done the right thing? She was almost certain that it had been more merciful to send her son to God peacefully and painlessly, but doubt was still gnawing at her heart. At the back of her mind, there was a small voice calling her a murderer.

Sibylla vaguely remembered going out of the crypt and being dressed in the royal robes of a queen. She was queen? That didn't sound right. But she was, and that...made Guy the King of Jerusalem. She stiffened. How had it come to this? She had killed her son, and her kingdom. Balian had been right; she could not hold the kingdom in peace, and there would be war. Even now, she was certain that Reynald and Guy were busy spilling blood and preparing for a confrontation with Saladin. And the kingdom was in its death throes like a beast, felled by disease and now attacked by the spears and arrows of hunters.

The flame of the single candle in the crypt flickered as a slight draught passed by. Uneven footsteps made her look up. There stood Raymond. "Milady, I have news," he said quietly. Sibylla simply stared at him, waiting for him to speak. The Marshal seemed to be struggling with something, for his dark eyes were troubled He opened his mouth, closed it and then opened it again. He took a deep breath. "Balian is dead," he said.

The pewter knight fell from Sibylla's hands and clattered on the cold stone floor. The sound echoed through the emptiness of the crypt. The princess' hands trembled, and she stared at them without saying anything. "I'm sorry," said Raymond, turning to go.

"How?" That was the only word which Sibylla uttered, but behind it was all the grief and disbelief that she was feeling. How could her knight die just like that? He was strong and skilled, and he was young. Why would God call him home before his time?

"Guy's men overwhelmed him in the desert," said Raymond. "He was alone and unarmed. He fought, but they were too many, and too well prepared. Help arrived too late."

"Where is he now?"

"They took him back to Ibelin for burial," said Raymond, hating himself for causing Sibylla more pain, but it was necessary if Balian was to be kept safe. "That is his land; it is where he belongs." He dipped his head. "If you need anything—"

"Thank you," she whispered. "I just want to be alone, Raymond, please."

Raymond nodded and turned to leave. "There are men waiting outside," he told her. She would have to come out sooner or later. Jerusalem needed a queen, and a king. 'God help us,' he thought. He could not, for the life of him, imagine Guy as a good and just king.

Sibylla had thought that she had run out of tears, but now, as she absorbed what Raymond had told her, the tears began to fall again. How could God be so cruel? Balian was a good man; he deserved better than to die alone in the desert, butchered like a sacrifice on some heathen altar. Blindly, she reached out for the pewter knight. When her fingers found its smooth surface, she clutched it tightly, as if it was the last link she had with her son and the man she loved. She rubbed her hand over the figure's surface, and the memory of Baldwin telling her how Balian had broken and then fixed the toy came to mind. A strangled sob rose in her throat.

She had gained the world, but lost everything that had ever mattered to her.

* * *

Balian groaned. His head ached, no, his entire body was aching. The last thing he remembered was fighting for his life, alone in the desert, and thinking that he would die. He opened his eyes. Where was he? He didn't recognize this place at all. Light filtered in through the windows, illuminating particles of dust. There were muffled voices somewhere further away. Beds lined the room he was in.

"How are you feeling?" came John's voice. Balian looked to the side and saw the Hospitaller standing there, looking down at him.

"Sore," he said.

The Hospitaller chuckled. "I never thought I'd hear an Ibelin admit to that," he said. "But you are lucky to be alive, do you know that?"

"Where am I?"

"You're in a hospice run by my order, about four miles north of Jerusalem." John sat down at the edge of the bed. "I brought you here after I found you in the desert."

"I must get to Jerusalem," said Balian, trying to sit up. John insistently pushed him back down.

"No, stay there," he said. "You're no use to anyone half-alive. Besides, all of Jerusalem believes that you are dead."

"Why would they think that?" Balian narrowed his eyes at John. "You didn't..."

"Yes, I did, Balian," said the Hospitaller. "I asked Raymond to spread the word that you were dead. It was the only way to make sure that Guy would not send more men after you." He smiled wryly. "Imagine their surprise when you appear in their midst again, alive and whole."

"Who else knows the truth?"

"Apart from Raymond, only Almaric, and the knights here," said John. "I have kept your survival a secret. It was the only way."

"So...Sibylla believes me to be dead?" That thought filled Balian with dread. She shouldn't have to grieve for him, especially not when there was such upheaval in the kingdom! She had enough to worry about, with her son as the king of a kingdom which was about to break apart. "Why didn't you let her know the truth?"

"Balian, we needed the lie to be convincing," said John. "She will know the truth eventually, when you ride into Jerusalem. You are in charge of the army now, even though Guy does not recognize your authority, and it was too risky to let her know. Now, you lie down and get your rest. I have no doubt that you will go to Jerusalem soon enough, but now is not the time." He shook his head as he left. Ibelins; they were always too stubborn for their own good. In time, he would tell Balian about the sudden death of the young king and the new situation in Jerusalem, but not right now. That would only make the young baron more determined to get back, and he would be intolerable.

"Watch him," he said to the other two knights who were guarding the room. "And I wouldn't put it beyond him to try and climb out the window." The last statement was meant as a jest, but John was quite certain that it was not far from the truth.

* * *

Voices seemed to surround her, whispering into her ears, although she could not decipher what they were saying. Her fingers clutched the pewter knight as memories flooded her mind and threatened to overwhelm her. Sibylla sat with her head bowed, right next to her son's sarcophagus. Her lips moved silently, still mouthing the words of the lullaby which she had been singing when she had lulled her son to eternal sleep.

Footsteps echoed in the crypt. Who was it now? It did not sound like Raymond; whoever this was, he wasn't limping. "I'd thought I'd find you here." said the last voice in the world that Sibylla wanted to hear. She looked up to see Guy, smirking at her, gloating over his victory. "You have heard?" He was referring to everything that had happened ever since the death of the young king.

She nodded dumbly; of course she had heard. Raymond had told her everything; Balian's death, the attack on the Saracen caravan which ended up in the death of Saladin's sister, and the declaration of war against Saladin. There was nothing that she wanted to say to Guy. Instead, she turned her eyes back to the pewter knight, sitting tall and upright on his horse. Her Balian had been like that, and her Baldwin would have been like that too, if that cursed disease had not taken him.

"What have you done?" said Guy softly, resting his gloved hand on her son's sarcophagus. He shook his head at her, as if berating a small child. Sibylla looked up again abruptly. How dare he come here and disturb Baldwin's rest? She wanted nothing more than to push him away from her son, but he was too strong. He'd even killed Balian. "What have I done?" he continued.

Guy leaned in closer to her. "Your son is dead by your hand," he said, as if he was talking about the spoils of his latest hunting trip, "and your lover is dead by mine." He laughed; the sound was harsh to her ears. "You've served your purpose." As he spoke, she could suddenly see the image of Balian lying alone in the desert, his life bleeding out and soaking the coarse sand beneath him, turning it crimson. Had it been quick? Had he been afraid? Had it been painful? She would never get the answers. Her hatred for Guy deepened. How dared he take Balian's life? Surely he must have known how Balian had elected to spare his? How could he repay such mercy with bloodshed?

Sibylla's grip on the pewter figure tightened. What was Guy doing here? Did he really take that much joy in reminding her of her guilt and her pain? She had lost everything; she didn't need him to tell her that.

"You should have poisoned _me_," said Guy, bringing his face so close to hers that she could smell the sour wine on his breath. Sibylla looked up. Her face, although pale, was calm; she'd learned long ago to hide her soul from the world, and now was the time to employ such skills.

"But you are a dead man," she said. Her voice was a little coarse from disuse, but it was steady. Her gaze never wavered as she stared at her husband. "Saladin will see to that."

Guy grunted, losing all traces of amusement. He left her there, still sitting beside the sarcophagus and singing her lullaby. The dark silence of the crypt surrounded her once more. That was the way she wanted it.

* * *

Balian was ready to go. In fact, he had been ready days ago; only the Hospitallers did not seem to think so. John had already ridden to Jerusalem, stating that the Grand Master of the order had summoned him. Something was looming on the horizon, and the baron of Ibelin was certain that it had something to do with Guy's new position as King of Jerusalem. 'Can any kingdom have a worse king?' he wondered as he pulled on his boots. There was still some dried blood down the side of his face and on his neck. Head wounds bled a lot.

The young man flexed his muscles. He was still a little stiff and sore, but that could not be helped. Jerusalem needed him; Sibylla needed him. It didn't matter that she had tried to use him; he was still going to be her champion when the time came. There would be no one else to do it otherwise.

"My lord, your sword," said one of the Hospitallers, handing Balian his weapon. Balian nodded his thanks and strapped his sword to his belt. He wore no armour, for that would only slow him down. Speed was the key. Someone had to stop Guy before he did something which would sign the kingdom's death warrant. Raymond would try his best, but John had implied that the Marshal had lost hope, and was almost ready to leave Jerusalem to its fate.

Balian strode through the corridors of the hospice, passing healers who were carrying jars of salves and balms. Soon their skills would be needed. He had already arranged with the knight who was in charge of the hospice for some of the physicians to go to Jerusalem and set up another hospital there. War was coming and the Franks had better be prepared.

His horse stood waiting in the courtyard of the hospice. The animal whickered when she saw him. He patted the mare's neck. "You're ready to stretch your legs, aren't you?" he murmured, taking the reins from the groom. The horse snorted as he swung into the saddle, a little clumsier than usual.

The man dug his spurs into the mare's flanks and she surged forwards. Her hooves clattered on the flag stones as she passed through the open gates of the hospice. "God go with you, milord!" called one of the Hospitallers who had been chosen to remain in the hospice. Balian did not turn back, but he raised a hand and waved to indicate that he had heard and was grateful for the blessing.

* * *

Raymond stared out across the desert, only half listening to Guy. The air shimmered in the heat; there was no life to be seen. And then, a figure appeared on the horizon, speeding towards the gathered army. The Marshal smiled as he heard the cheers of the men. Yes, Balian was here. There was hope still.

* * *

**A/N: **Balian is back! The scene between Sibylla and Guy is not mine; it's taken from the 'deleted scenes' of the Director's Cut.


	16. Coup d’état

**With You, I'll Be Only Sibylla**

**Smithy:** Sibylla probably will give Balian an earful and chew him up about it after the emergency is over. Lucky Tiberias will be off in Cyprus by then, so he won't have to face her wrath; he's guiltier than Balian in this. Thanks for the review.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Kingdom of Heaven_ or anything else that you recognize. It all belongs to Sir Ridley Scott, William Monahan and history.

**Chapter 16: Coup d'état**

Guy knew that Raymond was not listening to him as he stated the reasons why he had decided to go to war — the main reason being that he was king and if he wanted to start a war then he would do so— and he did not care one little bit. Raymond of Tiberias was the past; Jerusalem had no use for an old cowardly Marshal who would rather make peace with God's enemies than do his duty and eradicate them from the face of the earth. He had control of the army now, and he was going to use it as he pleased.

"There are some of you who might not agree with our succession," he said, looking at each and every one of the gathered nobles. No one said anything. They all knew what had happened to Guy's last opponent, and no one relished being left to die alone in the desert and becoming food for carrion birds. "But it is war!" continued Guy, his confidence swelling. This was what he had come to the Holy Land to do. "And I am..." Then his eye strayed in the direction of the desert, and his confidence evaporated like a puddle in the scorching eastern sun. "...the king," he finished, and he knew he sounded pathetic, but no one was paying him much attention.

Striding towards the gathered nobles was a man whom he'd thought he had been well rid of. How in God's name had Balian lived? Perhaps he really was blessed, as some had said. Or perhaps Templars made very poor murderers. Next time, he would hire one of the _Hashashin_. They were incredibly expensive, but at least when they killed a man, he remained dead.

Dark dried blood still clung to Balian's face and neck, but he was very much alive, if tired. All eyes had turned to him. He was covered in dust from his long ride in the desert, and they were all wondering where he had come from. Their spies near Ibelin had reported nothing, and he had not been in Jerusalem. So where had he been? Only Raymond knew, and if the situation had not been so dire, he would have laughed at the expressions of the gathered nobles. They all believed in resurrections, but to actually witness one was another matter.

"We march at once," said Guy loudly, trying to recover his lost confidence, but the presence of Balian made him so nervous that his throat was dry. "What say this council?"

"Aye!" said Gerard de Ridefort, raising his fist. Reynald quickly followed suit, and there was a chorus of 'ayes' as the nobles assented.

"No," said Balian, having finally reached the canopy. "If you must have war, then it would be best to stay here behind these walls. Saladin cannot move his army away from water. You have a chance if you hold the city. But if you go out against Saladin, your army will be destroyed, and the city left defenceless!" He, too, looked at all the gathered nobles, hoping that they would come to their senses and stop this foolish venture before the kingdom was entirely annihilated. If they could hold the city, then perhaps the Greeks in the north would come and help. The Roman Emperor certainly needed the Kingdom of Jerusalem to act as a shield between him and the Muslims.

"When I wish for a blacksmith to advise me in war, I will tell him," drawled Guy, drawing a few laughs from his faction.

Raymond clenched his hands into fists and willed himself not to simply grab Guy by the front of his surcoat; one did not do that to a king, after all.

Balian, to his credit, simply ignored the barbed jest. There were more important things to worry about, and he wasn't ashamed of being a craftsman. After all, Jesus had been a carpenter. "Saladin wants you to move out," he said. "He is waiting for you to make this mistake. He knows his men, and he knows us."

Silence reigned as the war council absorbed the full implications of what Balian had just said. The barons were deep in thought. No one wanted to risk their armies and their fiefs; property was more important than pride. And then, in this period of indecision, who should step up but Gerard de Ridefort.

"We should meet the enemies of God!" he declared, raising a fist into the air.

"Aye!" said Reynald immediately, and he was followed with a unanimous chorus from the gathered noblemen. Balian inwardly groaned. Had madness taken the kingdom during his absence? How were they supposed to retain their strength if they marched out into the scorching desert at the height of summer, and in full armour too? They would roast before they even reached the enemy.

"And so we shall," said Guy, giving Balian a smug grin.

"Then you do so without my knights," said Raymond. His voice was calm, resigned, as if he was waiting for the inevitable collapse of the kingdom he had fought so hard to maintain.

"Then I will have the glory, Tiberias," said Guy. His confidence had returned now that his barons had agreed to his suggestion. "You had yours, years and years ago. It's time for mine." His smirk widened. Raymond clenched his hand into a fist and reminded himself that he was not supposed to hit kings, no matter how much he despised them or how bad they were. Perhaps there was still some of his younger, slightly feistier self left in him. Not that he had been the fiery one; that had been Godfrey.

Thinking about how his old friend would react to Guy's snide remarks right now made him feel slightly better. King or not, Godfrey would have taught Guy a lesson if he had been here. It was too bad that Balian seemed to be a much more withdrawn man than his father. If he hadn't, then this would have been a day to remember.

Almost growling with frustration, Balian turned his heel on Guy and walked away with Raymond close behind him. To turn one's back on a king was a great insult, and it did not go unnoticed by the nobles. However, Guy's declaration, and Gerard de Ridefort's intervention, had awoken their lust for bloodshed and victory. There was no turning back now.

* * *

Almaric had not expected Balian to return to the house so soon. Something must have gone wrong. The entire city was in an uproar. Apparently, there was hardly a soldier to be seen; rather unusual for a city which was almost constantly on the alert for invaders. "My lord?" he asked, as Balian rode through the door and into the courtyard. His horse was exhausted from the ride from wherever John had taken him. The poor animal was panting, and its flanks were caked with dust. Balian slid down from the saddle.

"Get every man-at-arms you can," he said. Almaric raised an eyebrow. Balian looked as if he ought to be resting instead of roaming the city doing God knew what, but the baron's tone brooked no argument, and Almaric knew better than to argue with an Ibelin. They were infamous for their stubbornness. "We're going to the palace."

"The palace, milord?" said Almaric. That had completely taken him by surprise. What did Balian want in the palace? He'd only just arrived. Shouldn't he rest for a bit first? Then again, Ibelins did not seem to understand the meaning of rest either.

"I must go there _now_," said Balian, as if sensing his sergeant's hesitation. "Get me a fresh horse."

"It will be ready in a moment, milord," said Almaric, hurrying to alert the other men-at-arms. As the big man left, Balian leaned back against one of the marble columns in his father's house—his house— and tried to will his throbbing headache away. Almaric was right He did need to rest; just not right now. Jerusalem needed him.

Soon, Almaric returned, with grooms behind him leading fresh horses. "Are you sure about this, milord?" asked the man-at-arms. Balian's face seemed awfully pale.

"I'm certain," said Balian. He climbed to his feet and tried his best to brush the dust from his breeches, without much success. The younger man gave up and hauled himself into the saddle. He sounded more confident than he felt. This was rebellion, and if he failed...No, he could not think of failure. He could not afford to, for if he failed, not only would he and his comrades die painful deaths, but all of Jerusalem would perish as well.

He glanced back at his men. They had all gathered, and they were waiting for his word. "Guy has taken the army to certain death," he began. "We must prepare to defend the city."

* * *

The sound of iron shod feet against stone shattered the silence of the night. Two factions of men were striding through the ambulatory of the palace courtyard, straight to confrontation. The two groups stopped. Flickering torchlight reflected off polished chainmail and bared blades.

Balian stared at the Patriarch of the Holy City. Disdain filled him. Heraclius was everything that a churchman should not be. Obviously, the bishop didn't think much of Balian either, for he sneered at the young baron's dishevelled appearance and crossed his arms, as if challenging him. That might not have been the wisest move, for Balian never backed down from a challenge. He spoke first. "Where is the queen of Jerusalem?" asked Balian. There was no point wasting time on niceties. He wasn't here to be polite.

"Guy is in charge of the army," said Heraclius, trying his best to look down his nose at the other man; a truly amazing feat, as the bishop was considerably shorter than Balian. "A husband has rights, even over a queen."

"Are you a man who looks to your own interests, my lord bishop?" demanded Balian, stepping up to Heraclius. "You have that reputation."

The bishop did not move. Nor did he even deign to speak. Instead, he made a vague noise which sounded like an affirmation. It was enough for Balian. His hand moved to the hilt of his sword. "If you obstruct my way, I will kill you. There it is," he said. Almaric had to stop himself from laughing at that. This was not the way a courtier spoke. Then again, Lord Balian was no courtier; he'd admitted it himself.

"Well, there it is," said Heraclius. He turned to the few Templars behind him. "Do it," said the patriarch in a low voice as he scurried away from the bloody skirmish that was about to take place. _Ecclesia abhorret a sanguine._

The Templar at the front was about to draw his sword, but Balian was quicker. With one fluid move, the baron had unsheathed his blade and sliced open the belly of the unfortunate Templar. Gleaming lengths of bloody intestines poured out from the wound and the man fell with a cry. The men at arms behind the young baron took this as a signal, and they rushed forwards as the rest of the Templars all charged. Blades flashed in the torchlight. Splashes of blood made dark stains on the stone. The palace was filled with the cries of men as they were cut down by the merciless blades of their adversaries.

Balian had no time for a prolonged struggle. He needed to find Sibylla. Although he had nothing to say to her, he wanted to know that he was there for her. The baron left the bloody struggle. His men were winning, and there was nothing more he could do here.

* * *

She sat in the room, singing quietly to herself. The dim flickering candlelight only served to enhance the shadows beneath her eyes and on her gaunt cheeks. In her hands, she still clutched the pewter knight. Sibylla rocked back and forth as she sang. Memories overwhelmed her. She could see Ibelin and its low walls as the sun rose above the little town. Balian's waterwheel continued to turn. People bustled about as they began their daily chores; gathering water, saying prayers, feeding their animals. Too bad the master of Ibelin would not see it again, this new Jerusalem which he had built with his own hands.

There were footsteps. Who was coming for her now? Whoever it was, his pace was quick and even; definitely not Raymond. A hand slowly reached out to drew back the translucent curtain which hid her from the world. There was a signet ring on the small finger. Sibylla's breath caught in her throat. She knew that ring. Her eyes travelled to the face of the man who wore the ring. He was covered in dust and blood, both wet and dry. His face was a bit pale, but there was no mistaking it. Balian was standing there before her, and he looked too solid to be a phantom. Somehow, he had come back to her. Perhaps there was hope still...no, there was no hope, at least not for her. She had done the unthinkable, and she was going to burn in Hell for her sins.

The two estranged lovers stared at each other. For a while, neither of them said anything. It was Sibylla who spoke first. "Do you know what I have done?" she asked. Guilt gnawed at her heart, and she was certain that he would hate her if he knew. What accusations would he throw in her face? Here was a man who had lost his child, and she'd killed hers because she didn't want to see him suffer. Would Balian blame her for her selfish weakness?

Instead of accusing her of anything, he simply nodded. "And why," he said. So he did not blame her for doing what she had done. That gave her some relief. But what of the troubles which loomed before them?

"When Salah-ad-Din comes, we're not defensible," she said. The princess gazed into the brown eyes of her knight; her perfect knight. "Save the people from what I have done." The last entreaty was barely a whisper, but it carried all her remorse and her pain. She'd betrayed Jerusalem when she'd let Guy take the throne, and now the burden of saving Jerusalem fell to someone else. She wished she could do more, but she was only a woman who did not even have the strength to lift a sword.

"I will," said Balian. His voice betrayed no emotion. He was so cold. Was this the same man who'd loved her in Ibelin? He let the curtain fall and turned to go. However, Sibylla still had more to say to him. He needed to know.

"If you had wanted the world, and more," she said. "I would have wanted you less." That made him stop in his tracks, but it did not make him turn back to her. His shoulders seemed to drop, and then he strode away. Sibylla stared at his retreating back. Even though she could see nothing but his silhouette, she could see his determination in the way he held himself, and she prayed that it would be enough to save them.

* * *

**A/N: **The confrontation between Heraclius and Balian is from the deleted scenes, as is the little exchange between Balian and Sibylla. There's not very much Sibylla here, as after her coronation, she does very little except grieve until the siege. I hope you enjoyed it anyway.

_Ecclesia abhorret a sanguine--_ 'Holy men detest the spilling of blood'. This phrase is actually used in reference to the disdain which was held for the art of surgery back in the Middle Ages. However, it applied well to this situation.


End file.
